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SNAPSHOTS 

BY THE WAY 


BY 

GILBERT GUEST ^ 


OMAHA: 

BURKLEY PRINTING COMPANY 
MCMXX 



COPYRIGHTED, 1920, BY 
FLORENCE BREN AN 
OMAHA. N EBRASKA 


*} 

■I 


3 

O 


0 




DEC -8 1920 


©CI.A304476 


CONTENTS 


Page 

A Meeting of Souls 7 

What Jack Won 27 

A Debt Twice Paid 41 

A Farm House Idyl 59 

A Love Story Without a Sweetheart 115 

A “Deestrick” School Idyl 133 

To Him Who Waits 171 















































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A MEETING OF SOULS 



A MEETING OF SOULS 


A TALL, gaunt man, a great shock of 
straight black hair, wild eyes, a dark 
yellow face, quick, nervous movement, a 
great impetuosity of conversation, made up 
of cosmopolitan languages — all went to 
form the character and personality of Pro- 
fessor Blankson, music teacher. A man 
ordinarily so ugly that his physiognomy 
might have portrayed Mephistopheles, and 
yet, when under the enchanting influence of 
music, a man who was strikingly handsome. 
As a music teacher he was a decided failure, 
his pupils in general being in constant 
dread of an exhibition of violent temper. 

“By gar, mees, your fingairs must be 
made of what you call soft bread ; ah, yes, 
by gar, I have it, your fingairs are all 
dough ; can you not stick to de keys ! Ah ! 
le diable! What for you make such mis- 
7 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


take ? My dear mees, you are wasting your 
time. Go to de kitchen and wash deeshes. 
I will wash my hands for you. Good morn- 
ing. ’ ’ 

This little sally is but a small example 
of Professor Blanks on’s explosions of an- 
ger. Never was he known to give a music 
lesson without threatening or insulting his 
pupil. That he was an excellent musician, 
aye, even a fine one, his bitterest enemies 
could not gainsay. But that he developed 
his pupils was a much-disputed point. Most 
of his patrons anticipated his visits as one 
might a cyclone. They knew that they 
meant, as far as their daughters were con- 
cerned, hysterics, headache, and not infre- 
quently nervous prostration; hut the Pro- 
fessor’s rates were high and the Professor 
was stylish, and therefore must be en- 
dured. 

To his few intimate friends he was a 
very good fellow, kind hearted, gleeful, 
generous to a fault, forgiving, tender — oh, 
8 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


so tender to the sorrow-stricken — earnest 
and simple in his religious faith as a child, 
devoted in his friendships, even to self- 
sacrifice, and the soul of honor. No matter 
what torrent of abuse fell from his lips 
when under the baneful influence of his 
mighty passion, his few true friends never 
heeded what he said, except to pity him. 

His four years’ residence in New York 
was marked by a phenomenal success. He 
appeared in concert and took the warm- 
hearted New Yorkers by storm. Every 
ambitious mamma wanted her daughter? 
to receive lessons from the Professor, and 
though he lost them by the twenties, the 
new pupils came in by the forties. He 
might have saved a small fortune, if he 
-cared, but the Professor was not a man to 
save. His sense of honor compelled him 
to pay his debts ; beyond that, he had noth- 
ing. It was no unusual thing for him to 
ask some of his patrons to lend him his car- 
fare, so reduced, at times, was the condi- 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


tion of his purse. But he was not ashamed 
of his poverty, though sometimes he was of 
his temper. He was unmarried and his 
enemies maliciously asserted he could not 
keep his temper long enough within bounds 
to ask any woman to have him. 

£ £ 

Till he reached his thirtieth year his 
art had been all sufficient for him. His fate 
appeared to him one night at a recital he 
was giving to his patrons. He saw seated 
in the parquette a dainty little woman, 
small in figure but beautifully: rounded, 
with a sweet, pale face, surmounted by a 
mass of chestnut hair. Her blue eyes 
smiled into his and with a delightful thrill, 
of what, he knew not, the Professor felt his 
whole being flooded with a happy calm. It 
was a pure soul looking into the turbulent 
depths of another pure soul nearly tempest 
wrecked with its passions. It seemed to the 
Professor as though the evening would 
never end, so eager was he to meet his 
10 


A MEETING OP SOULS 


destiny. He was the last to play. The piano 
under his magic fingers spoke all his anxi- 
ety, all his longing, all his new-born love. 

A hush followed his masterful interpre- 
tation, then came tumultuous applause. He 
quickly left the stage and was surrounded 
by eager homage, but impatiently thrust 
it aside and pushed forward. Great was 
his anger when he reached the seat which 
the beautiful unknown had occupied, only 
to find her gone. A torrent of ridiculous 
anger burst forth on the head of a devoted 
admirer of his; the poor lady gazed with 
astonishment at the infuriated musician, 
but he, heedless of her discomfiture, push- 
ed by her. At the door of the hall he re- 
ceived the ardently-desired introduction. 

“Ah, mees, I have much pleasure in 
speaking with you. ’ ’ He bent low over her 
hand and raising it to his lips, pressed it 
reverently. “You are the only one woman 
for me.” He was progressing rapidly; 
if his enemies had heard him they would 
11 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


have maliciously asserted that a hasty woo- 
ing would be the only successful one for the 
Professor. “Let me, ma belle, come to 
see you. Don’t say not.” 

Miss Alma Hastings, quick to resent the 
slightest familiarity from one of the op- 
posite sex, felt intuitively that she, too, had 
met her destiny and blushing prettily, told 
him she would be at home any evening in 
the week. 

It was an impetuous and speedy woo- 
ing; two months from the time he first met 
her found them man and wife. In a pretty 
home in the suburbs of New York they com- 
menced housekeeping. A happier man did 
not exist than our turbulent Professor, 
and his happiness added to that of his 
pupils. His bursts of wrath were rare; 
where he was wont to overwhelm his clients 
in torrents of broken English, he would 
look grave and say, ‘ ‘ Ah, well ! Commence 
again,” or “We will do best next time.” 

The Professor’s conversion was the 


12 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


talk of the day. It could not be possible 
that a wife effected such a change. It was 
both possible and true ; her calm peaceful- 
ness shed a radiance of quiet joy over the 
man. He was always thinking of her; he 
felt as though her calm soul enveloped his 
and protected him from himself. When 
his pupils thought he was immersed in the 
intricacies of some musical passage, he was 
fondly dwelling on the latest trait of sweet- 
ness developed by his wife. But men are 
not organized for ruminative love ; that be- 
longs peculiarly to woman. She can spend 
a whole lifetime, from youth to old age, in 
love dreaming, but not so man; his active 
nature makes his love more passionate, but 
does not, as a rule permeate every detail of 
his daily life. 

However, the charm the Professor’s wife 
threw around her husband made him for 
five or six years play the woman’s part in 
love — then came the change. He did not 
cease to love his wife — in fact he loved her 

13 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


more ardently; but he did not think of her 
so often. His art gradually gained the old 
supremacy, and with that returned his 
irascibility of temper. The pupils again 
began to drop off and a new musician made 
his appearance on the concert stage, leav- 
ing the Professor to till a second place. His 
family increased and with the increase 
came new demands on his capital which he 
was unable to supply, and the Professor’s 
temper grew apace. 

“Gustave,” called his wife one morning 
after his hurried kiss of farewell, “be good 
today, dear.” 

4 4 Good ! Am I not always good, Alma ? 9 9 
he asked smiling tenderly down on, to him, 
the most beautiful face in the world. 

“To me, my best beloved, always 
good,” replied his wife with deep feeling. 
“Never have you given me one unkind 
word ; that I could say if I were to die to- 
night. 9 9 

* £ 

14 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


Clasping her close he said passionately : 

4 4 My God ! Alma, what do you mean by 
speaking to die?” 

4 4 Gustave,” she answered tenderly, “ I 
mean nothing more than an illustration.” 

* 4 Then, by gar ! Alma, use no more such 
illustrations. They make me cold.” 

All day her tender 4 4 Be good today, 
dear,” followed him and made him patient, 
but toward the end of the day his evil 
genius came in the shape of a nervous 
woman. 

The Professor had tried to obtain a 
steady position in a college as music teach- 
er, and in order to show his skill he had 
asked one of his pupils to play before the 
board of trustees. The poor woman was 
indeed a credit to her teacher, but un- 
fortunately his many anxious exhortations 
before she began to play had unnerved her 
so completely that her interpretation of 
the piece was a complete failure. Tearing 
his hair in a passion of rage, the Professor 
15 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


denounced her as a “stooped lu-nattie. M 
One of the board called him to order, and in 
a paroxysm of disappointed anguish the 
music teacher struck him a violent blow. 

The meeting dispersed and a heartsick 
music teacher wended his way homeward, 
only to find the wife of his soul woefully 
sick. For several days he succeeded in 
hiding his bitter sorrow from her keen 
eyes, but with love too unselfish to be long 
blind to the fact that lie was sorrowing, 
she coaxed the story from him. When it 
was finished, kissing him tenderly she sent 
him out to his few remaining pupils. But 
for hours after his departure Mrs. Blank- 
son was absorbed in deep reflection. 

Toward evening she said to her six- 
year-old child : “ J essie, papa will soon be 
home. I am too sick to rise; go put on 
your pink dress and curl your hair.” 

“Why, mamma ? ’ ’ asked the child in 
surprise. The mother looked tenderly at 
her and then said gently : 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


“You see, dear, you are getting so big 
you must take mamma’s place/ ' Jessie 
did not notice the break in her mother's 
voice, but answered gaily: 

“Am I 'most a woman, mamma? 
Goody! Must I meet him at the door and 
kiss him just like you do?" 

Amused in spite of herself, the mother 
asked : 

“How do I do, dear?" 

“Why, you rush and he rushes, then you 
fold your arms round his neck, so, hide 
your head on his breast, so, while he looks 
down at you, oh, so loving-like; then he 
takes your head in his hands, looks into 
your face and you look into his, just like 
a body reads a book, you know, and he 
gives you a long kiss, and I am waiting 
all that time, he only gives me a winchey, 
dinchey one. But he will give me a big one 
tonight. Oh, mamma," sinking down in 
dismay, “I can't reach his breast. I’ll tell 
you. I '11 stand on the hatrack till he comes 

17 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


in ; then I’ll fix it!” Mrs. Blankson laugh- 
er, but her eyes were wet as she said : 

“Jessie, will you always play mamma 
for papa when I am not around?” The 
child ’s dark eyes glowed. 

“Will he like it?” 

“Yes, dear; and, Jessie, when the 
naughty temper comes, you will say a little 
prayer and keep the naughty words back. 
That will help papa, too. ’ ’ 

The child’s disposition resembled the 
father’s Something in the mother’s man- 
ner sobered Jessie and she promised earn- 
estly she would be good. For fully an hour 
she waited in the hall, and when she caught 
sight of her father coming slowly up the 
steps the child gleefully took her position 
on the hatrack. 

“Papa, come here!” she smilingly com- 
manded. He wonderingly obeyed ; but when 
Jessie, in perfect imitation of her mother, 
embraced him, his knees shook with ap- 
prehension. 


18 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


“My gar, child! what is the matter?” 
Still in imitation of her mother, she re- 
mained silent. Thoroughly frightened, the 
poor man took her head between his hands 
and was startled by a merry peal of 
laughter. 

“That’s right, finish it, papa; I am 
playing mamma.” The simplicity of the 
man *s nature responded to the child and 
he kissed her heartily, and with great glee 
repeated the incident to his wife. 

That night when the six children, after 
their customary romp with their father, 
had retired, happy and worn out, to bed, 
the Professor took his station by the side 
of his wife. 

“Ma belle, you are as beautiful as a 
dream tonight,” he murmured, lover-like. 
She smiled back at him. 

‘ ‘ Gustave, are you too tired to hold me 
in your arms ? I want to play baby. ’ ’ 

1 ‘ Too tired to hold you, mon ange ? No, 

19 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


but you may catch cold,” and he bent over 
her anxiously. 

“No, dear, cold won’t hurt me; don’t 
wrap the shawl so tight, dear, I wan’t my 
arms free. There, that is good. I can look 
up to my old sweetheart. What an impetu- 
ous wooer you were, Gustave. Do you re- 
member? When I said I had known you so 
short a time you answered , i We have known 
each other all our lives.’ ” He nodded; 
something in her tender reminiscence 
choked him. “Kiss me, Gustave; you said 
I was made for you ; I believe it yet. ’ ’ 

“Do you doubt it?” His voice was 
hoarse. 

“No, but I have not done you all the 
good I could,” answered his wife. 

“Oh, Alma, Alma! You have made my 
life one paradise ! ’ ’ 

“We have been happy, but I have not 
helped you to control your temper.” 

“Well,” he interrupted, with impa- 
tience. 


20 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


* ‘ ’Tis not well, dear ; onr passions lead 
us to heaven or hell. I have not helped you 
living — I will when I am dead. ’ ’ 

His mighty cry of anguish silenced her ; 
they gazed at each other. She knew from 
the working of his face, he understood. 
Then lifting up her thin arms she wound 
them round his neck and whispered. 

“Gustave, you have loved me perhaps 
too much. God will separate us till your 
love is purified by suffering. You must 
meet me in heaven, dear, and that will only 
be when this wild anger is laid. When I go 
my soul will watch over yours, and when- 
ever the hot words come I will fold my 
arms round you so and kiss you so, and 
then, sweetheart, you will be good. Some 
day you will feel this embrace and you will 
hear me say, ‘ Soul of my soul, come up. ’ ’ ’ 
In speechless agony they were locked in 
each other’s embrace. 

She spoke no more, but often when her 
tired arms relaxed she would wait till 
21 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


strength returned and then again would 
wind them round his neck and kiss him 
gently. 

He ? Why he fought the fight that comes 
to all who lose their heart ’s own love. Far 
into the night when his wife, overcome by 
fatigue, slept in his embrace, he struggled 
passionately against the awful mandate 
sent forth from the Almighty throne. To- 
ward morning resignation came. Even if 
he lost her for a time, she was his for all 
eternity. And soul to soul they would 
again be united. 

The next day she died. All who knew 
the Professor expected him to do some 
dreadful deed in his sorrow, but beyond a 
wild, inarticulate burst of agony at the 
grave, he was calm ; his simple words to his 
little daughter were touching in their 
pathos: “Jessie, you must play mamma 
for always, now.” 

And well the child did it. As years sped 
22 


A MEETING OF SOULS 


on, many a terrific fight did the poor Pro- 
fessor have with his turbulent nature, but 
never did the words come; fact or fancy, 
as it might be, in his paroxysms of rage a 
gentle kiss seemed to stay the hot words. 
He mellowed with age, the Mephistophelian 
expression was gone forever, his gentle 
gravity of manner, his sweet, tender smile 
won all hearts; and when white with age, 
one night he sat in the old arm-chair, beside 
her bed, and felt again her gentle embrace, 
he heard with rapturous gladness, * ‘Soul 
of my soul, come up.” ’Twas the longed- 
for meeting of souls. 


23 








WHAT JACK WON 













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WHAT JACK WON 


J ACK was struck with a sudden fit of 
industry, for two mornings, one after 
the other, he really got up without being 
called. Dressed himself, yes, even washed 
his face, and what is more, actually said 
his prayers. His mother grew watchful, 
she knew a sudden change in the habits of 
a boy meant something. What she saw 
him do was little short of wonderful. He 
went into their somewhat neglected back- 
yard, neglected because of .lack’s careless- 
ness in destroying its neatness, and his 
mother saw him do what ? Go to work and 
tidy it up. A great part of the rubbish, pa- 
per, broken branches of trees, whittlings 
from shingles, all were carefully put in a 
pile; what Jack was going to do with the pile 
remained untold till the next morning. 
•Again, the unwonted early rising and care* 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


ful dressing took place and his mother 
waited. A big fire was the result of that 
morning’s work. “Heaven bless the boy, 
what on earth is he thinking about,” anxi- 
ously asked his mother of his father. 

“Ah, pshaw! That’s nothing,” ex- 
plained his father. “Boys take those 
streaks. He has cleaned up the yard well, 
but you needn’t be surprised, if you find it 
in a mess tonight.” But strange to re- 
late, the yard continued to be kept in order 
for three days after, and then Jack’s moth- 
er saw a sight which astonished her. Her 
little son, for Jack was only seven, entered 
the back yard accompanied by two gentle- 
manly looking men. Jack began pointing 
to different parts of the yard and one of 
the gentlemen took a kodak out of his 
pocket and looked straight at the kitchen 
window. “My gracious, he is going to 
take a picture of our house, and we will 
surely be in the newspapers. Jack, Jack,” 
called his mother. But Jack, too interested 
28 


WHAT JACK WON 


in the visitors, did not hear, or if he did, 
did not heed, which amounts to the same 
thing. The next thing she saw him do was 
to run to the end of the yard, seize an old 
spade and strike an attitude. That last 
action did not surprise her half as much as 
Jack’s former industry had done. She was 
used to all kinds of antics from her wild 
little son. But curious to know the names 
of the visitors she asked who they were. 
“Why, you see Ma,” explained Jack, “the 
mayor has promised a prize for the best 
kept backyard and them men took a picture 
of how it looks now and at the end of sum- 
mer will take another and give me a prize. ’ ’ 
“A prize,” laughed his mother. “What 
for, ugliness?” “No, ’cause it won’t be 
ugly, Ma. Say, Ma, haven’t you got any 
seeds you could give me!” “Seeds, 
child! You don’t expect anything to grow 
in that place?” “Yes, Ido, Ma. Ah! go on 
and give them to me.” 

The mother, laughing, produced a paper 
29 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


of morning glory seeds which she gave 
Jack, saying, “ ’Tis no use, son, nothing 
will grow in that garden; the soil is too 
poor . ’ 9 

4 ‘How can I make it better, Ma,” eag- 
erly asked Jack. 

4 4 Well, if it were well dug up and ma- 
nured. I suppose I could coax your father 
to hire a man. Why, what is the matter ? 9 9 

“ ’Taint no use, Ma, the gentleman said 
if I got the prize, I had to do the work my- 
self,” sighed Jack. 

44 Well, child, you can’t dig that yard by 
yourself. ’ ’ 

4 4 1 ’ll have to,” said Jack in his most de- 
termined tones, and he did. It took him a 
week to do it, but he did. 

Then came the manuring part; taking 
up one of her wooden scrub pails, his moth- 
er wondered if a rat or mouse had died in 
it. No, Jack had carried it to the stable 
around the corner and had begged the men 
to fill it with the produce of the stables, that 
30 


WHAT JACK WON 


was all. The next day a tin pail gave out 
queer odors and Jack’s mother was 
angry. 

“Jack, what next are you going to carry 
to that stable! If you use any other pails 
1 shall certainly punish you. Why didn’t 
you keep the wooden pail!” 

“Now, Ma, don’t be mad. I got Joe 
Sike to help me carry from the stable and 
two pails was quicker than one. ’ ’ 

“Quick or no quick, Jack, don’t you touch 
another pail.” 

Soon as the manure was roughly work- 
ed into the earth, Jack called his father 
into the yard, and seating himself on the 
end of a barrel invited his father to take 
the other end. 

“Jack, that barrel is empty, isn’t it! 
i am afraid it won’t hold us both,” said 
his father seriously, though his eyes 
danced. 

“Yes it will dad, if you sit careful.” 

“All right, young man, here it goes. 

31 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Well, what is the important news you have 
to tell?” 

“Why, dad, this yard has got to be 
fixed, and that means money and I haven't 
got a cent.” 

“Zou haven't? Humph! that’s bad. 
How much would set you up?” 

“I was thinking a quarter would do, 
hut that would only buy four and a half 
packages of seed, dad . 9 y 

“Great Scott! Four and a half pack 
ages. .Do you intend to sow all Jackson 
street with flowers, Jack!” gravely asked 
his father, though his mouth looked queer, 
and Jack felt a little afraid he was laugh- 
ing at him. 

“Well, you see I ast Mrs. Perkins, the 
woman that has such a beautiful yard, and 
she said I had ought to sow mignonette and 
sweet lyssum round the fence, and back of 
the morning glories, and then in the middle 
of the yard a great big pile of pet-tunas. 


WHAT JACK WON 


and round that, grass ; so you see, daddy, I 
need money,” eagerly concluded Jack. 

4 4 You surely do, — but my boy if you ex- 
pect anything to grow in this place with 
those big chunks of clay and manure, 
you ’ll be mistaken.” 

4 4 But dad, what must I do f If I want to 
make that all level it’ll take me a week. 
Mrs. Perkins said the seed should be in 
now. ’ ’ 

“So they should — well, 1 can help you.” 

44 No, dad, that won’t do — it must be all 
me,” sighed Jack. 

4 4 Why not make a Corporate act of it, 
son?” 

4 4 How’s that, dad?” 

4 4 Why, get a whole lot of the boys to 
pitch in and level it for you, explain you 
will share with them when the prize comes 
in,” explained his father, anxious to help 
the little fellow in his manly efforts. 

Jack thought a minute. 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“All right, dad, — it's a go. How much 
will you give me!” 

“You asked for a quarter,” smiled his 
father. 

“Ah, no, dad, a quarter won’t cover the 
business.” 

“Well, if you are going to make a cor- 
poration of equal shares on equal work, 
the members ought to divy up and chip in 
so much for each. When you have collect- 
ed your capital come to me and I will see 
what I can add to it.” 

That evening Jack’s yard was a scene 
as exciting as ever Congress presented, and 
after much, “Ah, go on’s,” “Give us a 
rest,” “I’ll see one and' go you two,” 
‘ ‘ Divy up, ” “ Here you are old man, ” af 
fairs were finally settled and Jack was the 
happy banker of two dollars and thirty-five 
cents. His father added two dollars and 
sixty-five cents, making in all five dollars. 
Then came the buying and planting, and 
then the awful long, dreary days of watch- 
34 


WHAT JACK WON 


ing. One morning, Jack’s mother nearly 
dropped the coffeepot as a sudden yell 
from her little son almost paralyzed her, 
then with a wild rush, Jack thrust his curly 
head into the kitchen window with, “They 
are coming, they are here.” Vaguely 
wondering if it were the Indians, his moth- 
er asked him, “Who are coming, Jack!” 

“The flowers, Ma, oh, come out — the 
dear green things. Come out and see 
them,” cried Jack. 

“Wait dear, till after breakfast.” 

“Oh, no, Ma, come now.” And like a 
good mother she went and shared his joy. 

The flowers and the grass seed grew 
rapidly. The boys were in ecstasies of de- 
light. But alas! for human hopes. One 
day Jack’s youngest sister left the gate 
open and a little kid strolled into Jack’s 
yard. The grass was first attacked, then 
the flowers, lastly the vines, and when the 
young gardener returned, the yard pre- 
35 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


sentecl a sad scene. Jack’s anger was 
great. 

“Ma, Ma, Edith ought to be whipped, 
she ought. She left the gate open and 
Ned’s kid eat up everything. Whip her, 
Ma, whip her. ’ 9 

“My son! Oh, Jack! Why should I 
whip your poor little sister. She is only a 
baby. 9 ’ 

Not finding comfort there his anger 
knew no bounds, and so rushing into his 
wrecked garden, Jack threw himself face 
downward and sobbed bitterly. 

“Hello, hello, what is this?” sounded 
his father’s cheery voice. 

“Oh, dad, look at it,” sobbed Jack. 

“I see, but look here, my lad. Crying 
about it won’t make it any better. What 
do you suppose those fellows down on wall 
street do when a big smash comes ? ’ ’ 

“Dunno dad.” 

“Why, they keep a stiff upper lip.” 

36 


WHAT JACK WON 


In answer to Jack’s look of inquiry, 
* ‘ They act like men, go to work again. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Haven ’t got any money. ’ ’ 

4 ‘Well, haven’t you a corporation? Get 
after them, levy a tax on them. If they are 
going to share the profits they have to 
stand the losses.” 

Jack’s manhood was roused Drying 
his tears he called a meeting of all the small 
boys on the block and as several newsboys 
and bootblacks were heavy stockholders, 
having the most stray cash, and as a rule 
that class are generous, Jack’s second 
capital was raised, seed planted again, and 
the second anxious waiting occurred. But 
the flowers came. How beautiful the yard 
looked. But alas! again came the trial. 
One dark, threatening evening Jack heard 
‘his father say to his mother: 

‘ 4 Poor fellow, he seems doomed. If 
that is not hail in that cloud, I will be 
glad.” And hail it was — the garden was 
once more a wreck. But this time, al- 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


though Jack’s lip trembled, he did not cry. 
He simply went to work and collected 
again. 

“ ’Tis too bad, Jack,” said his father. 

“Oh, well, dad, we’ve got to stand it. 
1 told the fellows what you said when I 
cried the first time, and now they say they 
know how them busted millionaires feel.” 

The summer past, no bloom was in 
Jack’s garden. The prizes were awarded — 
his name was not on the list, — but when the 
flower beds in the neighborhood had ceased 
blooming, Jack’s garden was in full beauty 
which lasted all through the fall. 

“Jack, your garden is very lovely,” 
said his mother proudly. 

“Yes, Ma, I didn’t get no prize, but 1 
got something else, dad.” 

Catching his son in his arms and kiss- 
ing him, his father answered : 

“You got lots of hard work, Jack, and 
you learnt a lesson to fight odds, eh?” 

38 


WHAT JACK WON 


• More pleased with his father’s kiss than 
he cared to tell, Jack said, 

“Yes, I guess I know how them big 
corporations fight, dad. But the kids was 
disappointed.” 

“Sure enough. Well, Jack you tell 
them I will give their money back to them 
or an ice-cream party.” 

The plan told to the delighted boys, they 
one and all protested that they didn’t want 
anything, they had enjoyed the flowers as 
much as Jack had. But one warm evening 
in late fall, Jack’s neighborhood heard the 
merry shouts of the boys enjoying the ice- 
cream feast in Jack’s beautiful backyard. 
And that was prize enough for them. 


39 


































































# 

























A DEBT TWICE PAID 





A DEBT TWICE PAID 


H E had strolled into the convent chapel, 
just in a spirit of curiosity ; that was 
all; he, Silvio Salgani, the great Italian 
tenor. The night before, he had faced an 
enthusiastic audience, he had looked down 
on a sea of upturned faces, he had drunk 
deep of a tumultous adulation, and he had 
gloried in his triumph. He had listened to 
the wonderful music of his own voice, he 
had caught in the mirror the reflection of 
his faultless figure and face and he asked 
himself, “Did the world hold another 
Silvio Salgani ? Was he not the center of 
the world ? ’ ’ Intoxicated with his success, 
he left the stage in a glow of exultation. 
Perfection of feature, beauty of voice, 
adoration of the world, all were his. 

In his joy of triumph he had in his 
indifference, to the sorrow of the contralto, 
43 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


who had forgotten some of her score, been 
almost brutal. Now, as he sank into a seat 
in the quiet chapel, all these incidents 
passed in review before him. He was not 
a prayerful man, but he was an impression- 
able one. He remembered with a twinge 
of remorse, it was nearly twenty years 
since he had entered a Catholic church. 
The sisters ’ chapel was very beautiful in 
its dim quiet; Signor Salgani felt the re- 
ligious calm ; it quieted and at the same time 
frightened him for he had too much room 
for thought. Thought is an ugly customer 
when he has been long banished from the 
heart. 

Restlessly the tenor looked up. How 
high it was! Could he not sing magnifi- 
cently in that organ loft? And the nuns! 
Their thin voices could never fill that 
mighty arch. Their voices must neces- 
sarily be poor, for did they not fast? But 
he must go. 

He did not go, however. A young wo 

44 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


man of gentle presence habited as a nun, 
entered a door off the sanctuary and with 
noiseless step and graceful movement flit- 
ted back and forth, from altar to sacristy 
and from altar to altar. She seemed praying 
as she dressed the altars, but her smile was 
as happy as a child ’s. Prayer to him was a 
woefully grave affair. Why did that wo- 
man find pleasure in it? Once she turned 
quickly in his direction, and he swayed into 
the shadow of the pillar; he wanted to 
watch her unnoticed. 

She had not seen him, but looking up to 
the choir, she seemed by her silent gesture 
of assent to be answering some unseen per- 
son, Turning to the altars, she increased 
the speed of her actions and as Signor 
Salgani watched with interest, the chapel 
was flooded with music. A master-hand 
touched the keys of the organ. The religi- 
ous at the altar turned and went rapidly 
down the middle aisle. The Signor trem- 
bled. Would she see him? If she did,. 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


would she put him out? No, humming in a 
rich soprano voice, the music that came 
from the choir, she passed without seeing 
him and ran swiftly up the stairs of the 
organ loft. 

For the next half hour the tenor was 
in a musical ecstasy. The nun that played 
and the nun that sang both were musicians 
of more than ordinary talent. The rich 
voice rang out in a joyful paean of thanks- 
giving, filling the arch superbly, then fol- 
lowed a plea for mercy, but when two 
voices harmonizing beautifully sang the 
plaintive duet, “Miserere Mei, Domine, ,, 
the proud king of song sank on his knees 
and sobbed. 

“Have mercy on me, at least you my 
friends,” they sang. 

“Miseremini Mei, saltern vos, amici 
mei.” 

And he? He thought of the gentle, 
dark-eyed mother he had promised never to 
forget. Forget? Had he? Aye, everything, 

46 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


every promise, every duty had been for- 
gotten in his craze for public applause. 
He had gained it and fondly dreamed that 
he was the greatest singer in the world, but 
here in the quiet chapel, the tenor’s great 
pride was humbled to the dust. Here two 
women, obscurely hidden from the world, 
were singing with voices so glorious that 
had they stood the night before with him 
before the foot-lights, his singing would 
have been as nothing. What was it that 
made their voices to search his soul? Had 
he with all his talent ever effected anything 
for the good of humanity? 

In his sudden accession of humility, 
Signor Salgani was unjust to himself. He 
forgot that one who interprets the musical 
thoughts of another so as to give delight 
to his hearers, is doing good to the race, in 
fact, he forgot that any giver of innocent 
pleasure is a doer of good. But all poor 
Signor Salgani could remember was the 
utter worthlessness of his life. Discour- 
47 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


aged, abased, be knelt in bitter humiliation, 
nothing could efface the past, he was a tenor 
of opera, that was all, a worthless good- 
for-nothing. So many years wasted — but 
suddenly as if by a flash of lightning, the 
whole current of his thoughts was again 
changed, as the glorious voice sang, “Re- 
joice, Rejoice ye Angels! Sing loud the 
praises of the Queen.’ ’ 

That was what he would do, yes, even 
in opera, he would sing the praises of the 
Queen; whenever the encore came, his an- 
swer would be a laude to Mary. Could that 
redeem the past! No, but acts of kindness 
and mercy and the fulfillment of his re- 
ligious duties might in the end effect it. 

The singing ceased, he rose and, leav- 
ing the chapel, met the nuns as they came 
from the choir. 

“You have been visiting our chapel!” 
the sister who sang soprano asked. 

The gallant man of the world awkward- 
ly bowed and stammered and then said : 

48 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


‘ i Sister, I should like to speak with the 
singer of that last hymn.” He spoke eag- 
erly and the sister saw that he had been 
weeping ; and bowing with grave grace led 
the way to the parlor. 

1 6 Sister — T” 

‘ ‘ Sister Raphael, ’ 9 she said. 

“Sister Raphael, do you know your 
beautiful singing has converted me ? I have 
not been to my duties for many a long day, 
but tonight I go to confession. ’ 9 

‘ ‘ Do you mean it, sir ? 9 9 she asked. 

“I do. Your singing has touched my 
hardened soul. Can you tell me, Sister, 
the secret of your power?” 

“I know not what it can be, except that: 
I have made it a practice, before singing,, 
of saying three Hail Marys that my singing 
might make my listeners think of God. To- 
day through force of habit, although I 
thought the chapel empty, I said those 
three Hail Marys as I dressed the altar. 
That is the only secret I possess.” 

49 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


He seemed deeply moved, and his fine 
brown eyes were dimmed with unshed 
tears. 

4 ‘ Sister, I understand; in my pride 
while I listened to the glorious tones of 
your voice, I thought what a waste of gen- 
ius it was to sing in that empty chapel, but, 
my God ! what a fool I was to entertain such 
a thought even for a moment. It is I who 
waste my power. I, poor imbecile, sing to 
fools, and you sing to angels. ’ ’ 

In his excitement he had risen, the nun 
regarding him the while in bewilderment. 
Where had she met him before ? 

“Sister, in your quiet haven of rest, 
you do not hear the murmurs of the world ; 
you do not know me. I am a singer. ’ J 
“I know you,” cried Sister Raphael. 
“You are Salgani.” 

“Where did you hear me?” 

‘ 4 Six years ago, before my entrance into 
religion, Signor, I was at the opera house 
in New York and you sang in Martha.” 

50 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


“Sister, if I could do anything else 
I would abandon my career tomorrow. I 
know no profession but that of singing,” 
he said in utter dejection. 

“Signor, you think you do no good?” 

“None whatever; I live only for my- 
self. 1 ’ 

“Grant that you have been selfish. 
Have you not tried to make your art as 
perfect as possible? Are you not a great 
singer? The artist who perfects his art, 
does good to humanity by raising its ideal . 9 ’ 

“But the temptations that are encount- 
ered on the stage, you know nothing of 
them, Sister.” 

‘ 4 Can you not rise above them ? Can you 
not ennoble your work by impersonating 
noble characters? Can you not declaim 
against immoral productions ? Can you 
not, in fine, remain in the position your tal- 
ents fit you for and besides being a grand 
tenor, can you not be a Christian hero ? ’ * 

She spoke with great earnestness, and 
51 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Signor Salgani saw in this humble sister 
the genius of music pleading its cause, and 
his enthusiasm awoke. 

‘ ‘ Sister, if I could do as you say, if my 
music could effect good — ” 

“It can and it has. You claim that my 
singing has made you a better Catholic; 
well, then, today I paid a debt I owed you. 
Yes, you are amazed. When six years ago 
I heard your magnificent tenor singing that 
beautiful song, ‘ ’Tis the Last Rose of Sum- 
mer,’ I was undecided as to what step I 
should take in life. I was young, the world 
was fair, but Christ was knocking at my 
heart. In this state of mind I went to the 
opera. The touching pathos of the lines, 
4 1 ’ll not leave thee my lone one to pine on 
the stem, since the lovely are sleeping, go 
sleep thou with them,’ made me in a flash 
see the desolation that comes to those in 
the world when all that they love are gone 
— and then and there I determined to go 
where love is eternal . And so I came.” 

52 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


‘ ‘ Great God!” he gasped, and then 
with the abandon of a child, he covered his 
face with his hands and sobbed aloud. 

“Well, Signor, what are you going to 
do?” the sister asked gently after some 
moments. 

“Just what my guardian spirit tells 
me. God sent me to you today. I may 
never meet you again. Our troupe leaves 
tomorrow on the early train, but your spirit 
will help my poor fallen soul to rise to 
greater heights.” And bowing low over 
the sister’s extended hand, he took his 
leave. 

The next time he faced an audience, 
there was in his bearing a king-like dignity, 
in his eyes a raptuous exaltation ; and when 
he sang “ ’Tis the Last Rose of Summer,” 
there was a depth of tenderness in his voice 
that evoked not a torrent of applause, but 
silent tears and sobs. His encore was 
Gounod’s “Ave Maria.” What ailed Sal- 
gani? What changed him! They knew 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


not; but the sister who knelt in a quiet 
chapel praying that he might reach the 
heights, knew. 

It was observed that as the character 
of its favorite tenor evolved into higher 
manhood, the standing of the troupe 
changed also for the better. Higher ideals 
were aimed at, greater courtesy shown to 
woman, and, in fact, a more honest moral- 
ity practised. Signor Salgani never for- 
got the lesson he learned in the sisters’ 
chapel. His struggles toward a noble life 
were hard, but he fought manfully. 

He was singing in the last scene of 
“Rigoleto” the final solo. Enchanted, the 
audience hung on his glorious notes. The 
stillness of that vast multitude was over- 
powering in its intensity. Suddenly a ter- 
rific explosion shook the stage and Sal- 
gani saw that the back and side wings were 
on fire. Knowing what a panic would mean 
to that immense throng, the tenor re- 
doubled his efforts and his magnificent 

54 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


voice rang out joyously. The audience, 
somewhat disturbed by the report of the 
igniting of the gases, had risen, hut not 
seeing the flames and reassured by Sal- 
gani’s self-control, re-seated themselves 
and the curtain fell amidst a storm of ap- 
plause. 

By this time the whole hack of the stage 
was aflame and Salgani’s retreat was cut 
off. Appearing before the curtain, accom- 
panied by the chief soprano, he bowed 
gracefully and in his clear, ringing voice, 
as the smoke curled about him said : 

“My friends, I have always been true 
to you. Will you believe me, then, when 
I tell you there is plenty of time for you 
to leave the theatre. Let the women go 
first and please take Signora Culverti with 
you,” handing down the star singer. “As 
long as I can stand before this curtain,” 
he continued, “you are safe.” 

This quiet bravery made itself felt and 
the immense house was soon emptied. Many 
55 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


a backward glance was thrown at the brave 
singer standing erect in his post of danger, 
gravely singing an “Ave Maria.” Not 
till the curtain burst into flame did he 
abandon his position. 

The night was intensely cold; hot and 
excited, Salgani drove to his hotel, clothed 
as he was, in doublet and hose. An attack 
of pneumonia followed. It was a battle 
for life and death. During his long and 
perilous sickness, the hotel was besieged 
with callers, and the city was wild over the 
heroism displayed by the singer. The dread 
disease was conquered — but his singing 
voice was gone. 

This discovery nearly killed him. It 
was in vain sympathetic friends pressed 
round, and notes of kindness poured in 
upon him. He was inconsolable. One day 
a little box was handed him. It contained 
a laurel wreath and this note : i ‘ No cross, no 
crown, the heights are not far off. Your 
friend, Sister Raphael.” 

56 


A DEBT TWICE PAID 


He was comforted. She had counselled 
him ten years ago not to leave the stage, 
but God had evidently designed otherwise. 

The loss of his voice did not unfit him 
for teaching and on the duties of that pro- 
fession he entered with ardor. He trained 
singers for the opera, and in time became a 
famous teacher and was known far and 
near for his skill in selecting the right 
material for the operatic stage. 

“Mam’selle, your voice is superb, but 
what is your motive in entering the op- 
era V’ he would ask. “Ambition, the de- 
sire of admiration! If so, you will get that 
at a much cheaper rate elsewhere. Sing- 
ing in opera is hard work. If you love 
music and seek to raise the standards of the 
profession, as I find by careful study of 
your character that you can do, then, Mam- 
’selle, I am your servant. ’ 9 

“Ah, if my poor voice would come back. 
What do you say, Mam’selle! Sing again 
in opera! Never! The footlights have seen 
57 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


the last of me. But if God so willed, I 
would love again to sing. Good morning, 
Mam’selle.” And bowing out his pupil, 
with a sigh, Salgani took up the morning 
paper. 

With a start he gasped, ‘ ‘ Dead ! Sister 
Raphael! My guardian angel !” Beads of 
perspiration stood on his forehead. ‘ ‘To 
be buried tomorrow. Ah! then I shall be 
there. Oh, if I could only sing!” With a 
mighty effort he cleared his throat and 
sang, first softly, and then with jubilant 
joy, Gounod’s “Ave Maria.” 

As Sister Raphael’s body next morn- 
ing lay in state, the convent chapel was 
Hooded with glorious song. It was Sal- 
gani repaying a debt. 

Henceforth the famous tenor sang for 
God. 


58 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 





























































































































































































































A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


“OUSAN JANE, what on airth are yon 
O doing! ” An irate woman stood in the 
center of a large kitchen holding aloft a 
cooked poem, a rich, golden pumpkin-pie.. 
The kitchen was dainty in its exquisite 
neatness, and so was its mistress, hut alas> 
for the harmony of the picture! The mis- 
tress was angry. 

“ Susan Jane,” like the brassy clang of 
the rooster’s call the name rang forth ; 
but the call was unanswered. 

‘ 4 Good land of Goshen! Where’s the 
pesky girl! Here’s a pile of work to be 
finished and only me to do it. Father’s 
jest spilin’ that girl. Susan Jane!” 

This time the “ Susan Jane” was so< 
threatening that the owner of the oft re- 
peated title gently responded with, “Yes,, 
aunt. ’ ’ 


61 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Well, where on airth air you?” pet- 
tishly asked the aunt, as she walked in the 
direction of the voice, to a dim, stiff parlor. 
The girl in question had been busily read- 
ing a yellow-backed novel, and startled by 
the decided tone of the aunt’s last reitera- 
tion, she had dropped the book, and as she 
bent to pick it up, had taken in place of it, 
a catechism. At that opportune moment, 
her aunt reached her chair. 

“Studying your catechism,” her tone 
softened. “Well, that’s an improvement. 
I was just a thinkin’ you had one of them 
yeller-backers. ’ ’ 

Susan Jane gave the yellow-backed book 
a gentle kick and sent it under the merciful 
shelter of a table cloth. She did not intend 
to deceive her aunt, but dreading an easily 
roused temper, acted on the impulse of 
the moment. 

“Do you want me, aunt?” she gently 
asked. 

“Do I want you? and me a callin’ for 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


you for the last half hour. ’Tis all right to 
study your catechism. The dear knows 
you need it ; I never did see a girl so ignor- 
ant as you air in the gospel, but the Lord 
Almighty wants you to do this work before 
you study the scripture. Look at all them 
pies to be scalloped, and the men are com- 
ing in hungry as bears. ’ ’ 

With a quiet grace Susan Jane flitted 
around the kitchen scalloping the pies by 
gently pressing her pretty pink thumb in 
the soft pie crust, beating up the golden 
pumpkin-batter, poking up the logs on the 
fragrant wood fire till they all seemed to 
vanish as before the touch of fairy wands, a 
fact that seemed to soothe her quick-temp- 
ered aunt, who forgot to work, while she 
gazed complacently at Susan Jane. 

4 ‘ Lands sakes, child, but when you do 
get to work you beat me all hollow.” 

“No, aunt, that is not true; I can do 
the rough work, but when it comes to fine 
cooking you’re the boss.” She was stand- 
63 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


ing in the full blaze of fire, and her well 
rounded figure, her shapely head, almost 
Grecian in its simple hair dressing, her 
beautiful arms dusted with flour, her 
bright, young face, all combined to make a 
pleasing picture of health. In simple, un- 
tutored natures the artistic temperament 
is frequently found, and Mrs. Davlin, Su- 
san Jane’s aunt, was no exception to the 
general rule. The large, old-fashioned 
kitchen was rich in color. The yellow pump- 
kin pies, the bright and burning logs on 
the open hearth mingled with the autumn 
sunshine to throw a halo of glory over all, 
and the beauty and restfulness of the 
scene quieted the impetuous housekeeper. 

4 4 Susan Jane, you air awful like your 
ma was when she married that store clerk, 
your father, drat him! She was purtier 
than you air. ’ ’ 

“ You didn’t like my pa, aunt?” queried 
Susan Jane, ignoring the equivocal compli- 
ment to herself. 


64 


A FAKM HOUSE IDYL 


‘ ‘ Like him?” snorted Mrs. Davlin, vig- 
orously fanning her heated face with her 
apron. “Like a man that destroyed my 
sister’s happiness? I should say not, if he 
was your pa a thousand times.” 

“Wasn’t he good, aunt?” asked Susan 
Jane with deepened color. 

Conversation in which adverse remarks 
against her father played an important 
part often took place between herself and 
her aunt. The fact that her relative did 
not like her father did not decrease a rather 
romantic affection the girl had for her dead 
parent. Women instinctively cling to the 
forsaken or abused. 

“Good?” repeated Mrs. Davlin, with a 
sarcastic inflection on the word. ‘ ‘ Oh, yes 
he went to the Mass and took the sacra- 
ment, but he couldn’t support a wife.” 

“Now, aunt,” cried Susan Jane, hold- 
ing aloft a pumpkin pie, vigorously snip- 
ping off the surplus pastry, “how could a 
man work with a broken knee.” 

65 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“What business did he have to break 
his knee just after his first and only child 
was born?” snapped her aunt, rising and 
resuming her work, as though there was 
more strength for the argument in that 
arena. 

“Why, aunt, how on earth could he help 
slipping on the ice?” indignantly asked 
Susan Jane. 

4 4 Help it ! Hard cider don ’t help to make 
folks steadier on their pins,” grimly re- 
torted the older woman. 

Bang! went the pies into the Dutch 
oven; clash! shut the door; clatter! went 
the bowls and spoons into the dishpan; 
splash ! dashed the hot water over the spot- 
less floor, as Susan Jane hurried to and 
fro with sparkling eyes and tight shut 
mouth. Her aunt watched her with a grim 
sense of enjoyment, as though she gloried 
in her temper as a family inheritance. Af- 
ter a short space of time, during which 
Susan J ane played the part of a miniature 
66 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


cyclone, Mrs. Davlin broke the silence with : 

“What air yon so angry about? One 
would think I said your pa was a drunk- 
ard. ’ ’ 

“Well, you might just as well have said 
it,” retorted the girl. 

“But I didn’t. He had ought to know 
better than to drink hard cider, when he 
knowed he had to cross two miles of ice, just 
makin’ a fool of himself all cause of you.” 

“You oughtn’t to blame him because he 
was glad he had a daughter, aunt. You 
were glad when I was born, for I heard you 
say so. You never did like my father, any- 
way. ’ ’ 

“No, I didn’t,” assented her aunt, 
frankly. “I have no patience with a man 
that makes his living by snipping the scis- 
sors. Standing behind a counter seems 
just like loafing to me, and your ma was 
such a purty girl, she could have had her 
pick and choice with the best. There was 
Ed Allen, as fine a young man as stood in 
67 


SNAPSHOTS EY THE WAY 


shoe leather, with his acres of land, a-break- 
ing his heart for her.” 

Susan Jane tossed her head, “He didn’t 
break it long.” 

“You wouldn’t have a man fool his life 
away because one girl wouldn’t have him, 
when there was plenty more willing! There 
goes his son now, John Allen, just a year 
older than you air.” 

A pink flush deepened Susan Jane* s 
blooming cheek, but with the obstinacy of 
her kind, she looked across the room in- 
stead of out of the window, and so she lost 
the searching glance of the young farmer, 
riding slowly past their farm-house. Her 
aunt understood Susan Jane’s maneuvers; 
she had not brought her up from early 
childhood for nothing. 

“He’s an awful nice young man, with 
lots of money,” sighed Mrs. Davlin. 

“Aunt, ’tis a wonder you let ma marry 
so good a Catholic as pa was,” said Susan 
68 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


Jane, hastily bringing the conversation 
back to her father. 

“There was no wonder about it; your 
ma, when she took an idee into her head 
got sot, and there it stayed. She was de- 
termined to marry your pa, even when he 
told her he couldn ’t marry her if she didn’t 
jine his church. I must say I respected his 
sticking to his religion; and when he was 
a-dying he laid you in my arms and said: 

“Ann Eliza, if she dies soon, meaning 
your ma (the dying has visions, you know, 
of the future), you must promise to bring 
Susan Jane up a Catholic.” He looked so 
handsome (he was good looking) that I 
just softened down and promised. Of 
course, I don’t know as I have done it, not 
having no Catholic minister around here, 
but I have tried to larn you your cate- 
chism. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think that has anything to do 
with it,” rejoined Susan Jane in a decisive 
tone. “If you could explain the big words 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE V/ AY 


I could understand it better. Anyway, 
aunt, I am going to be a genuine Catholic. 
Oh, dear, look at this pie!” She held up 
for her aunt’s critical inspection a very 
much bebrowned pastry. 

“Sakes! Well you have done it. I tell 
you, as I often says to your uncle, you can’t 
do two things at a time ; you can ’t talk re- 
ligion and bake pies at onct. Why, who 
under the living sun is a-coming in at the 
gate?” 

Both women, actuated by strong curios- 
ity, ran to the window and beheld a long 
emigrant wagon slowly rumbling into the 
yard. One of the horses seemed so lame 
that it was with difficulty it could walk. 
One of Mrs. Davlin’s most lovable traits 
was a boundless hospitality, and the 
though uppermost in her mind was to get 
dinner for the new arrivals, be they Jew 
or Gentile. 

“My lands! Susan Jane, lay the cloth 
while I go out and see how many air they. ’ ’ 
70 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


Trotting across the yard Mrs. Davlin 
quickly approached the weather-beaten con- 
veyance, and was not a little astonished to 
see a sweet-faced woman, wearing strange 
black and white head-dress, emerge from 
the wagon. 

“Is this the lady of the house V 9 asked 
the stranger. 

“Yes, I think so,” vaguely responded 
Mrs. Davlin, staring open-eyed at the 
strange costume of the newcomer. 

‘ 4 Our horse is lame, our driver not quite 
himself, and ” 

“Now, sister, Pm all right,” hiccough- 
ed the driver vainly striving to stand erect 
and look dignified. 

“All right!” indignantly echoed Mrs. 
Davlin, who forgot her amazement in her 
disgust for the drunken man. “You’re a 
beast, and had ought to be ashamed to treat 
ladies in such a manner.” 

‘ ‘ Who ’s a beast f ’ 9 warmly interrogated 
the driver, trying to annihilate Mrs. Davlin 
71 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


with a tragic look. A lurch forward des- 
troyed the strength of the dramatic pose. 
Turning her back on him Mrs. Davlin ad- 
dressed herself to the woman he had called 
sister : 

“Indeed, ma’am, I’m sorry your broth- 
er hasn ’t more feeling for you. ’ ’ A puzzled 
look, and then a merry, gurgly laugh from 
the lady. 

“He is not my brother: he is Dick, our 
driver, a really good fellow when he’s sob- 
er. But these are my sisters.” Pulling 
aside the curtain of the wagon, she revealed 
six of the sweetest faces Mrs. Davlin had 
ever looked on. 

“Land sakes ! but they’re purty. What’s 
the matter with the end one ? ’ ’ pointing to 
the last occupant of the wagon, who, with a 
face of ashy whiteness, reclined on a pile of 
pillows. 

“That is Sister Estelle. She is very 
delicate, and our long drive has been too 
much for her. If you can let us stay a 

72 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


couple of days with you, so she and the 
horse could get rested, we will gladly pay 
you. ’ ’ 

“My pity! Stay? Of course you can; 
there ain’t no talk about pay. You just 
come right along and< get something to 
eat. Dinner is just about ready. The rest 
of you come in, but leave your sick sister 
there till I send Susan Jane for one of the 
hands to carry her in. ’ 9 

6 ‘ Oh, no, madam, 9 ’ laughed the sick sis- 
ter, “I can lean on the arm of sister ” 

But Mrs. Davlin had sped to the kitch- 
en, bursting in on Susan Jane with the 
strange intelligence that there were seven 
Quakers or Shakers, all natural sisters, 
though they didn’t look a bit alike. 

“Quakers!” ejaculated Susan Jane, 
4 4 1 thought they had all left the State. ’ ’ 
“Oh, well, these ain’t just exactly like 
the Quakers we knew; I shouldn’t be sur- 
prised if they were Shakers. ’ ’ 

At this moment the seven strangers en- 
73 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


tered, all clad in black garments with a 
mass of sheer white close to their bright 
faces. They had caught the word “Shak- 
ers,” and an expression of quiet amuse- 
ment lighted up their intelligent counten- 
ances. 

“No,” explained the one who had first 
addressed Mrs. Davlin, “we are not Shak- 
ers, although, when early this morning we 
discovered that Dick was drunk, had lost 
his way, and lamed one of the horses we 
felt like shaking. We are sisters of St. 
Joseph, on our way to a new Mission — 
West Branch — perhaps you know where it 
is!” The question was accompanied by 
such a dazzling smile that Mrs. Davlin ’s 
only answer was a stare of admiration 
which suddenly changed to an expression 
of deep sympathy, as she saw the sick sis- 
ter quietly drop into a chair. 

“Land sakes! Susan Jane, do fly round 
and set the table for the ladies in the set- 
ing room, as the men will need this here 

74 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


kitchen in a few minutes. My pity! if we 
had only knowed you was a-comin’ we 
might have had something decent. Here, 
fetch this platter in; don’t take them pies, 
they air too brown. Run down in the cel- 
lar and fetch up that apple jell, or maybe 
you rather have grape jell? ‘ No, you don’t 
care?’ Well, Susan Jane, fetch the apple 
jell and some of the apple brandy.” And so 
talking and clattering around, her cheeks 
and eyes glowing, her hands full of good 
things, Mrs. Davlin seemed, in the eyes of 
the half -famished sisters, the very personi- 
fication of the genius of hospitality. It was 
not long before her guests amply demon- 
strated the truth of the old saw, that “the 
proof of the pudding is in the eating;” 
and Mrs. Davlin ’s motherly heart warmed 
to the strangers as she saw the viands dis- 
appearing. She was pleased, too, that be- 
fore they begun their repast they made her 
promise to see that Dick fared better than 
his deserts. 


75 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


‘ 4 Don’t yon fret. Man, woman or 
child will never go hungry in my house. 
What air your names ?” 

‘ 6 This is Sister Clare” — 

“You don’t say! interrupted Mrs. Dav- 
lin ; “ she don ’t look a bit like you . 9 9 

The first speaker, who was in fact the 
Superior, Mother Joseph, laughed gaily as 
she asked: 

“You do not suppose we are natural 
sisters?” 

“Why of course. Didn’t you say they 
were your sisters?” rejoined Mrs. Davlin, 
who in spite of curiosity which prompted 
her questions, was busily plying the sisters 
with her delicious viands ; while Susan Jane 
occasionally stopped in the rush of serving 
dinner for the men to look shyly in at the 
sisters. 

“No; we are not related except by the 
bond of religion. We call each other sis- 
ter.” In answer to a puzzled look of in- 

76 


A FAKM HOUSE IDYL 


quiry from Mrs. Davlin, Mother Joseph 
said : 

“We are working for the Master, you 
know, and we are on our way to open a 
school for girls.” 

A look of relief from Mrs. Davlin. “Oh, 
you are school teachers, I see ; but why da 
you all wear those regimentals?” 

“These regimentals, as you call them r 
are our religious dress. Sister Estelle’s is 
not very creditable to the order, or Sister 
Frances’, either. Sister Margaret has the 
knack of always looking neat. Sister Mar- 
garet, your veil is torn and Sister Domin- 
ica, your guimpe is very much crushed, hut 
it is difficult to keep clean driving, so close 
together,” smiled Mother Joseph. 

“Clean! ejaculated Mrs. Davlin, “why 
you all look as if you’d just stepped out of 
a bandbox. There, Jim ! Have you washed 
your hands and face?” accosting her big 
sheepish husband, whose face looked as if it 
had not only been washed, but scrubbed 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


with soft soap. He had, in answer to her call 
stepped to the sitting-room and catching 
sight of the nuns’ lovely faces yielded to a 
chivalrous impulse to pull down his rolled 
up shirt sleeves before he shook hands with 
each. The man was shy, with timidity that 
comes of isolation from a busy commercial 
world; but he also possessed a chivalry 
that is common to the country-bred man. 
Mother Joseph, with her quiet courtesy 
soon put him at ease, and his wife was not 
a little astonished to see her ordinarily 
shy husband calmly conversing with the 
strangers. 

“Land sakes! Susan Jane,” ejaculated 
her aunt in a whisper, “them women beat 
the Dutch. If there ain’t your uncle a-talk- 
ing to them as if he knowed them all his 
life. And you seen how he stuttered and 
stammered when the parson’s wife talked 
to him.” 

“Why, aunt,” responded Susan Jane, 
“there ain’t no comparison between them. 

78 


A FAKM HOUSE IDYL 


The parson’s wife always makes yon feel 
as if yon didn’t know nothing; these ladies 
is twice as smart, but they don’t do that.” 

The natural sweetness of these strange 
women who so tenderly called each other 
sister appealed to the honest nature of the 
girl, and she was so distracted thinking 
about them that she inadvertently spilled 
some boiling hot gravy on a young man. 
He, too, had been busily looking at the girl, 
but the accident brought him to his senses 
in a very realistic way. 

‘ ‘ Gosh ! did you do that on purpose, Su- 
san Jane?” 

“I did, if you want to think so, Ned,” 
retorted Susan Jane pettishly. 

The uncle, who had by this time taken 
his seat at the table with the men, looked 
with grave displeasure at the niece. 

“ Can’t you get some flour to stop the 
burning, girl ? ” he said in a stern voice. 

Willful and petulant as the unwished- 
for attentions of her country swain, Ned 
79 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Ramsey, always made lier, to her uncle 
Susan Jane was simple obedience. 

Going to the flour barrel she was in the 
act of stooping over it, when a strong hand 
on her arm made her look up. 

“Susan Jane,” stammered the young 
fellow, looking beseechingly at her, “don’t 
mind the flour. I am glad to take anything 
from you, even this burn is good because 
you gave it. See,” holding up to view a 
great brown hand, on which the skin was 
rapidly rising in blisters. 

Susan Jane knew instinctively that the 
young man loved her, and with the perver- 
sity of her sex resented it; why, she knew 
not, but this last act softened her, and gent- 
ly taking the great hand in her two small 
ones, she softly dabbed on the flour. Ned 
was in a great ecstasy, and he declared, 
to lengthen the operation, that there was 
not enough flour on, although the same was 
falling to the floor. 

But Susan Jane’s softened moods were 
80 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


fleeting as April sunshine, so pulling away 
a hand he strove to keep, she told him cold- 
ly, if there was not enough flour on his 
hand he might stick it in the flour barrel if 
he liked. She had left him so suddenly that 
the floor was white with the flour, a state 
of affairs which did not escape the quick eye 
of Mrs. Davlin. 

‘ 1 Susan Jane, I wish you and Ned would 
do your foolin’ some place else,” cried her 
aunt sharply. 

Susan Jane was at this moment help- 
ing the sisters to coffee. 

“Is Ned your brother?” innocently 
asked Sister Claire. 

“No, ma’am,” replied Susan Jane, who 
heartily wished Ned a hundred miles away. 
Her confusion was not lost on Mother 
Joseph. 

“Will you ask Ned to come here, Susan? 
Jane?” 

Blazing with indignation, Susan Jano 
went to Ned and said sullenly: 

81 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“They want yon. ” 

“Me,” ejaculated the young man, and 
stumbling to his feet, he awkwardly pre- 
sented himself before the smiling sisters. 

“Mr. Ned,” sweetly began Mother 
Joseph, “our driver is not in a state to look 
after our horses ; could T ask you to see to 
them ? ’ ’ 

“Certainly, ma’am,” promptly replied 
the young man, who, after bowing with 
rugged grace, drew himself up to his full 
height, six feet one, and calmly gazed at 
these strange women. 

“We Tended to them before we took 
our feed. Mr. Davlin has respect for all 
animals, man included,” and so saying, 
Ned laughed, a great rollicking clang, and 
showed his two rows of fine, white teeth. 
Susan, in the other room, looked wonder- 
ingly at Ned; his shy awkwardness toward 
her always exasperated her, and his man- 
ner with the sisters was a revelation. 

“Sit down, Mr. Ned,” invited Mother 
82 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


Joseph. He gladly accepted the invitation, 
and many times Susan Jane heard his lond, 
joyous laugh. A twinge of something, she 
knew not what, made her displeased with 
the sister, and when half an hour after- 
ward Ned answered the call to work, and 
coolly passed out without speaking, her 
wrath was high. 

“I burn his hand, and he talks with 
these strange women and has no further 
use for me. Well, he ain’t no good any- 
way;” and Susan Jane gathered up the 
dinner dishes with a suspiciously loud 
noise. 

“ Susan Jane, leave them dishes alone 
and go in and entertain the ladies,” com- 
manded the aunt. 

“Oh, they don’t need me; I’ll go and 
call Ned,” tartly ejaculated Susan Jane. 

“Are you crazy?” queried her aunt, 
giving the girl a close scrutiny. “Where 
are your manners? They’ll hear you,” 
giving the girl a push towards the door. 

83 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Mother Joseph had both heard and un- 
derstood. A perfect religious woman in 
every sense of the word she had not ceased 
to be a perfect woman, and this suggestion 
of a farm idyl charmed her womanly heart. 

“ Susan Jane, come in; the sisters want 
to speak to you,” said Mother Joseph in 
her genial, irresistible manner. 

The girl could in no wise refuse the in- 
vitation. She was soon in their midst, talk- 
ing as if she too had known them all her 
life. No wonder Ned had forgot all about 
her; those sisters would charm the crows 
off the trees. The afternoon passed as a 
few minutes and when summoned by her 
aunt to prepare supper Susan Jane was in 
a maze. 

4 4 What was the charm the women pos- 
sessed?” she asked herself. She did not 
understand that magnetic influence which 
emanates from all who practice selfdenial 
for Christ’s sake. She did not know the 
secret of the sweetness of the nuns’ faces 

84 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


was their union, with the will of their Mas- 
ter; that their loveliness was the expres- 
sion of the love with which their hearts 
were filled. No, simple Jane did not know 
all this ; but she did understand how easy it 
would be to love these strange women, and 
when Ned asked to carry her milkpail to 
the house she had forgotten, even, that she 
was displeased with him. Her gentle man- 
ner so reassured him that he chatted gaily 
all the way to the dairy; hut, once at the 
house and with the sisters, Ned was com- 
pletely ignored, a fact which he bore philo- 
sophically, as he silently listened to the in- 
teresting conversation of these cultured 
women. 

Most farm houses are not remarkable 
for the number or size of their sleeping 
rooms, and the sisters found that one large 
room, somewhat barnlike in appearance, 
was all that Mrs. Davlin could place at 
their disposal; but her courtesy was so 
genuine, and her efforts to make the room 
85 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


homelike with its three big beds were so 
earnest that the sisters were deeply grate- 
ful. 

The next morning after their arrival 
Susan awoke with strange feelings of an- 
ticipation, which made her vaguely question * 
herself as to what had happened the day be- 
fore. It was barely five o’clock, but when 
one ’s blood circulates with vim five o ’clock 
is not such a dreadful hour. She was soon 
making vigorous preparations for break- 
fast ; her movements were quick and noise- 
less. It was only when Susan Jane’s temper 
got the upper hand that her work was em- 
phatically noisy. 

The kettle was soon puffing its exhil- 
arating gurgles of mirth, the fire snapping 
and blazing, the ham sending out its savory 
odors, and the beautiful kitchen aflame with 
homely comfort. 

Susan Jane was in every essential a do- 
mestic girl, and her spirits rose as the 
breakfast neared its climax. She was so 
86 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


absorbed in her work that she fairly jumped 
at the sight of a sweetfaced nun at the sit- 
ting-room door. 

“ Gracious, sister, you scared me. You 
air not all up yet, surely,” she anxiously 
inquired, looking at the unset tables. 

“ Yes, Susan Jane, we always rise at five 
o’clock,” answered the sister, seating her- 
self at the side of the open fire. 

“Land of the rising sun! and breakfast 
ain’t ready yet.” 

“Never mind breakfast, dear; we sis- 
ters never breakfast till our prayers are 
said, and they take us two hours when we 
have Mass,” smiled Sister Estelle. 

“Two hours!” gasped Susan Jane. 

“Yes ; but I am on the sick list, so Moth- 
er sent me down to get warm. It is absurd 
feeling cold this weather, but I am from the 
South, so notice every change. I am sorry 
I am not stronger; we need help so badly 
where we are going. ’ ’ The sister looked ad- 
miringly at Susan Jane’s figure, beautiful 
87 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


in its suggestion of strong young health. 
With a woman’s intuition the girl under- 
stood. 

“Would I be any help, sister !” she 
asked eagerly. 

“Help,” laughed Sister Estelle; “in- 
deed you would, dear, if you were a sister. ’ 9 

“Why must you he a sister to help!” 
queried Susan Jane. 

“Well, dear that is the intention; the 
workers are supposed to he sisters. I am 
almost sorry I came; I did not know how 
little I could stand. I begged so hard to 
come that Mother, that is our Superior, 
permitted me to join the pioneers; but it 
is a new foundation, and there will be so 
much manual work to be done that for a 
time I will only be in the way, until teach- 
ing begins. I can do more than they think 
I can, but the dear sisters are so careful of 
me that it grieves me to think of all the 
work they will have to accomplish before 
school opens. I can teach well, and my pu- 
88 


A FAKM HOUSE IDYL 


pils always learn.” The last was added 
with a charming simplicity of manner. 

“Your pupils learn? Of course they 
do,” said Susan, looking at the beautiful 
face and sparkling eyes. Vfhy, land sakes ! 
they’d be dummies if they didn’t learn 
from you. There, sit nearer the lire. I 
wish you’d stay long enough to learn me 
my catechism.” 

“Your catechism, child; surely you 
know that?” asked Sister Estelle. 

Susan Jane blushed. “You see this is 
flow it is, Aunt ain’t no Catholic. Ned is, 
but of course he ain’t no good.” 

“Why,” smiled sister, “he is surely 
not bad.” 

The girl laughed, and for a moment 

seemed embarrassed under the keen, but 
■» 

kindly scrutiny of the sister. 

“Oh, he is all right as a man, but he 
ain’t got no education, and couldn’t explain 
the hard words to me.” Susan Jane was 
rapidly setting the tables as she spoke. 

89 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Well, dear. child, I don’t know how 
long we will be here. I am ready to start 
today, hut Mother Joseph says I must take 
three days’ rest, and then if the horse is 
cured we can go on, but ” 

Ned entered just in time to hear the last 
of the sentence. “Well, sister if you are 
going to wait for the horse, it won’t he 
well for a week.” The sister looked dis- 
mayed, but Susan Jane laughed with pleas- 
ure. 

“So, sister, you will have time to learn 
me the whole catechism, for if I had you 
as teacher for a whole week it seems as 
though I could learn every bit of the Bible. 

“So could I,” chimed in Ned. 

“Here, Ned,” ordered Susan Jane, 
‘ ‘ you ’re up too early, so you must milk them 
cows for me,” giving him a pail as she 
spoke. 

4 ‘ Talk about the early bird catching the 
worm,” grumbled Ned; “I wonder what 
I’m catching.” 


90 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


“ A good scolding if yon don’t hurry; 
be a good boy now,” and Susan Jane smiled 
so sweetly that poor Ned, feeling the 
kitchen uncomfortably hot, left suddenly. 
A half hour afterwards, having finished 
the milking, Ned philosophically sat him- 
self down on the three-legged stool, to test 
Susan Jane’s patience. He had not long to 
wait, for he soon saw her flying across the 
yard. 

“Well, Ned Ramsey, what on earth are 
you good for? Taking such a long time to 
milk ! ’ ’ 

Ned’s eyes were too full of a glad de- 
light to meet those of Susan Jane. So, 
looking down, he growled: 

“What do you expect a feller to be, a 
steam engine!” 

“ Why, how you air a-talking! I could 
have them cows milked long ago,” said 
Susan Jane contemptuously. 

“May be you mout, and so could I if 
you was standin’ near me, Susan Jane,” 
91 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Le stammered. The unfortunate fellow al- 
ways grew awkward when he attempted 
to pay his mistress a compliment. 

4 ‘Oh, don’t talk nonsense; there’s that 
sick sister a waiting for that fresh milk. 
Come on.” And giving her orders Susan- 
Jane quickly left poor Ned to follow at his. 
leisure. 

4 4 When the breakfast dishes were wash- 
ed and the men gone to their work, them 
Sister Estelle and Susan Jane sat in a cozy 
corner of the kitchen and discussed the- 
catechism. The time passed so delightfully 
that the girl felt almost out of patiencm 
when her aunt called her to prepare for 
dinner; but Sister Estelle whispered : 4 4 This 
is what I meant by self-denial. You would 
rather stay with me than do your duty of 
the hour. Now is the time for an aspirated 
prayer. You remember what I told you 
about aspiration. ’ ’ 

Susan Jane nodded her head and 

92 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


thought: “If she was always around I 
wouldn’t mind if aunt took my head off.” 

That afternoon the little community of 
sisters and Susan Jane and her aunt were 
all seated in the stiff sitting-room when 
suddenly her aunt, dropping her knitting, 
exclaimed: “Land of Goshen! that looks 
like a parson in the rig.” 

“Why, aunt it is Judge Winters.” 

“So it is, girl; run out in the field and 
get one of the men to take his critter, cause 
he is going to stay. ’ ’ Anyone who came to 
the Davlin household always stayed ; its 
hospitality was country-wide. 

“Well, Judge Winters, come right in; 
it ’s good for sore eyes to see you. Here is 
some ladies stopping with us for a spell. 
Judge Winters, Mother Joseph and sisters 
— land sakes! I can’t get the run of their 
names,” chirped Mrs. Davlin, hustling 
round dusting the spotless arm chair with 
her apron, rushing to the kitchen to put 
something extra on for dinner, an animated 
93 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


whirlwind of hospitality. When she re- 
turned she found the courteous old Judge 
seated and talking in his genial way to the 
sisters, telling them he had heard of their 
coming, through their driver, Dick, who 
had been down to the postoffice to solace 
his loneliness with a chat on politics. 

Susan Jane listened delightedly to the 
interesting conversation; the sisters seem- 
ed to he so much at ease, so quick to inter- 
change thought, so alive, even on the cur- 
rent topics of the hour that the girl could 
hardly credit her hearing. Never before 
had she been in the midst of such mental 
activity, and she couldn ’t help wishing that 
she, too, were educated.. Ned soon came in ; 
he it was who had seen the Judge’s rig. 
Ned always worked when he could, in sight 
of the house, for reasons best known to 
himself. The young man, after exchang- 
ing civilities, leaned against the mantel- 
piece, and Jane could not help noticing how 
very erect he held himself, how intelligent 

94 


A FARM HOUSE IDYU 


was his expression when he did talk, how 
dignified were his remarks. It was only 
alone with Susan Jane that he was awk- 
ward; but her quick discernment did not 
fail to notice that his language was not the 
same as that of their guests. A great long- 
ing surged up in the girl ’s heart to be some- 
thing better than she was. When the op- 
portunity presented itself, at the end of the 
week, she told Sister Estelle her desire. 

“ Could you not go to school, dear?” 
asked the interested sister. 

“ Ain’t I too big?” asked Susan Jane. 
“Not at all child. When we get settled 
I am sure Mother Joseph would arrange it 
so you could come to us. We are not to 
have a boarding school, but I will speak to 
Mother and tell you before we leave. ’ ’ 

“Oh, thank you, sister,” said Susan 
Jane gratefully; but when the matter was 
discussed with Mrs. Davlin she showed a 
decided disinclination to the plan. Al- 
though kind, motherly and hospitable to a 
95 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


fault, Susan Jane’s aunt had seen with 
shrewd eyes how fascinated her niece w T as 
with the new comers, and with a quickly 
aroused jealousy she feared the loss of the 
girl’s devoted affection. In vain her hus- 
band stoutly maintained Susan Jane was 
all they had, and that the money they pos- 
sessed might as well be spent on the girl; 
his wife stubbornly refused to consent to 
part with her niece. 

“If she wants schooling let her go to 
the high school in town; then she needn’t 
stay away from us all night. ’ ’ 

“But that there school is free, Maria,” 
argued her husband. 

“What if it is? It’s a good one,” an- 
swered Mrs. Davlin, in her tartest manner. 

“Well, Maria, when we can pay for her 
schooling, ’taint right to send her to a free 
institootion,” sturdily replied Mr. Davlin,.. 
who knew from Jane’s silence how inter- 
ested she was. With all of the strength of 
his strong nature the man loved his niece. 

96 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


Deprived of his own children in their in- 
fancy, his love was poured out on Susan 
Jane. Though it would he a great sacri- 
fice for him to give her up, even that would 
he do to give her pleasure. Not so with her 
aunt. Susan Jane could go to the high 
school or none. 

“Then I’ll go to none,” hotly retorted 
Susan Jane. I’m not fit to go to the high 
school, and I’m not goin’ to make a fool of 
myself goin’ to the baby school.” There 
was another interested listener who heaved 
a sigh of relief at this change of affairs. 
Ned had listened with his heart in his 
mouth. He, too, had seen the silent rever- 
ence bestowed by Jane on the sisters; and 
once the awful suggestion had come to him : 
“What if she were one of them.” With his 
shrewd common sense he thought her 
want of education would unfit her for that 
life. So, it was with a genuine relief he 
heard her passionate announcement she 

97 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


would not make a fool of herself at the baby 
school. 

Everyone in the Davlin house was inter- 
ested in the sisters ; but two of its members, 
Mrs. Davlin and Ned, were not sorry to 
see them leave. Susan Jane did not try to 
disguise her grief at parting with them. 

“Goodbye, dear child,’ ’ whispered Sis- 
ter Estelle. “Keep up good courage; I 
will write often, and although it is too far 
away for frequent visits, you must come 
over and spend the summer with us.” 

“Yes,” chorused the sisters, “Mother 
Joseph or Sister Estelle will often write. 
Goodbye, and God bless you.” 

And so they departed. In spite of the 
little envy Mrs. Davlin had experienced the 
departure left a blank even with her. As 
for Mr. Davlin, he gravely told the men at 
supper he guessed he knew how Moses felt 
when the angels left him. “Yes, sir, them 
women were angels, and you may say what 

98 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


you like about religions, if I ever take any 
it will be the Catholic. ’ ’ 

“You bet! Mr. Davlin, it is the only 
one,” said Ned enthusiastically. “Only a 
feller is apt to forget it, when he only sees 
a priest every three months. But I prom- 
ised Sister Claire I'd go to confession with 
Susan Jane, and I will.” 

Mr. Davlin looked at the young man 
with undisguised admiration, asking slow- 
ly with a twinkle in his gray eye : “I 
thought you went to -confession by your- 
self? If I was a girl I’d hate to have a 
young fellow like you a listenin’ to my 
sins.” The laugh that followed drowned 
the noise Susan Jane was making in re- 
filling the teapot. She had promised Sis- 
ter Estelle to control her temper, and here 
it was, hot as ever. But the family noticed 
a marked improvement in Susan Jane; all 
but poor Ned, to whom she was exasperat- 
ingly cold or choleric. 

Days passed and the old uneventful life 
99 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


fell over Susan Jane like a pall. The world 
had never seemed so bright as in that short 
week when she looked at it through the 
eyes of the sisters, and now everything was 
so dreary, and they did not write. How 
strange it seemed ; hut a month after their 
departure a short letter came from Mother 
Joseph apologizing for her silence. Sister 
Estelle was very sick and the work was 
so much they could hardly accomplish it. 
Susan Jane’s helpful spirit was in a blaze. 
She immediately set to work to compose a 
letter; a very arduous undertaking for her. 
After patient hours of painful toil the 
epistle was finished. In it she begged the 
sisters to allow her to visit them to help 
them. She did not offer to join them. The 
desire was strong in her heart, but the aw- 
ful labor of writing a letter had completely 
discouraged her. 4 4 Let me get to them and 
study at their school. Maybe then they 
might let me be a sister. ’ 9 But the letter, 
though given to her aunt was never posted. 

100 


A FABM HOUSE IDYL 


In vain Susan Jane besieged her uncle and 
Ned with inquiries about the mail. No let- 
ter made its appearance. As months wore 
on and Susan Jane grew pale and thin with 
anxiety, her aunt was often tempted to tell 
her the fate of the letter sent to • Sister 
Estelle. In time, Mrs. Davlin ceased to 
think about the sisters, but not so with poor 
Susan Jane. A great longing to be better 
than she was, to know more than she did, 
filled her heart. The thought that perhaps 
the sisters had not answered her letter was 
because it was so badly written and ex- 
pressed, filled her with bitterness against 
her aunt and uncle. One day the vials of 
her wrath was poured on them both. Ned, 
seated in a corner, was an interested but 
slightly awed listener. She told them 
when they died she didn’t want their old 
money; if they wanted her to use it they 
must pay for her education; for educated 
she would be, if she had to go out and work 
for the money. They listened aghast, and 
101 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


after tlie silence which followed the out- 
burst Mr. Davlin said : 

4 1 Maria, the girl is right. The money 
is and will be hers, and she shall do what 
she dang pleases with it.” Mrs. Davlin 
was startled. Whenever her husband made 
use of the eloquent expression “dang” he 
generally took so decided a stand that she 
could not change his determination. 

“Weil, where do you want to go to 
school?” asked Mrs. Davlin. “Surely not 
to the sisters. I hope you have more pride 
than that ; they didn ’t think enough of you 
to answer your letter. Air you goin’ to 
them?” Ned held his breath. . 

“No, I won’t go to them before I know 
something. No ; I want you two to go right 
into town and ask Mrs. Lawlie if she will 
give me lessons by myself.” Ned took a 
long breath of relief. And so it was ar- 
ranged, but just as the couple were driving 
away from Mrs. Lawlie ’s, who had con- 
sented to give Susan Jane private lessons, 
102 


A FAKM HOUSE IDYL 


Mrs. Davlin suggested that they should 
stop at the postoffice. 

“Why, who on airth do you expect to 
hear from, Maria?” inquired her husband, 
somewhat astonished. 

“Mrs. Brown told me she would send 
me some samples of cloth as soon as she 
reached Burwell. ’ ’ 

“All right,” good naturedly assented 
her husband. “She ain’t only just arrived 
at Burwell at the most. Hello, Jimmie! 
Any letters for my old woman or me?” 
Yes; there was a letter, but it was ad- 
dressed to Susan Jane. 

“Sakes, let me see it!” ejaculated his 
wife. “Sure enough, ‘Miss Susan Jane 
Waters.’ Well, I vow. Oh, say, Dan, Ed 
Allen left a week ago; nobody knows for 
where. I kinder thought she gave him the 
mitten; she didn’t say so, but she was so 
eternal cross the day after he was at our 
house that I kinder suspected it. May 
be he’s written to make up.” 

103 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Nonsense, Maria/ ’ replied her hus- 
band, who had been quietly studying the 
address. “That ain’t no man’s hand, and 
if she did give him the mitten, what’s the 
difference ? ’ ’ 

“Difference? That’s just like a man! 
I don’t believe that girl is going to marry 
at all.” 

Mr. Davlin laughed a hearty laugh. 
“So much the better for us.” 

“I suppose,” said his wife, with a sar- 
castic inflexion of the voice, “that you 
think she would stay with us.” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, she won’t. What does she want 
to be educated for? Dan Davlin, you mark 
my words; when that girl learns enough 
she is going to be a sister. Hold them 
horses. What are you doing, Dan!” 
screamed Mrs. Davlin. Her husband in 
his anger had given the horses a violent 
blow, which had sent them tearing up the 
road. He had a profound respect for his 

104 


A FA EM HOUSE IDYL 


wife’s penetration, and her decision in thus 
announcing her opinion had impressed him 
with the strong force of an unwelcome 
truth. When he could control himself suf- 
ficiently to speak he asked helplessly: 
4 4 What air we to do ? ’ ’ 

“Why, don’t give her any schoolin’,” 
his wife promptly replied. 

The man’s face grew stern. Not as apt 
or intelligent as his wife, Mr. Davlin pos- 
sessed a strong sense of right, a deep in- 
tegrity of character which made his pledged 
word a sacred thing. His wife studied his 
profile, and she knew, as she elegantly ex- 
pressed it : “ He was sot . . ” His reply con- 
vinced her of the hopelessness of trying to 
move his resolve. 

“Maria, didn’t I promise the girl? If 
education will make her leave, why it will 
have to be so. But don’t you go a-talking 
to her about it. The more you go agin 
girls the more sot they get.” Mr. Davlin 
hadn’t lived with his wife twenty-five years 
105 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


for nothing. “Look out! Susan Jane’s 
letter is goin.” and leaning quickly he 
caught the falling epistle. “Maria, the 
postmark is West Branch. This is from 
the sisters.” Mrs. Davlin’s curosity was 
so great that in her endeavor to see she 
bumped her head against her husband’s. 

“Oh, Dan, it is ! We never can give this 
to Susan Jane. She is forgitting the sisters 
a little bit now ; and this here letter would 
start her all agin. Let’s read it.” 

“Why, Maria, that don’t strike me as 
right. That’s not intended for us, and it 
don’t just seem honorable to read it.” 
said Mr. Davlin in his slow way. 

“Well, you needn’t if you don’t want 
to, but I ain’t a-goin to tell her about it.” 
She looked doubtfully at her husband, anxi- 
ously waiting for his verdict. After some 
moments of painful thought it came. 

“Well, Maria, you can suit yourself. I 
suppose it would be best for her to know 
nothing about it. Still it don’t seem exact- 
106 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


ly right, hut the Lord Almighty,’ ’ he rev- 
erently raised his hat, “knows our inten- 
tions.” 

Jubilant in obtaining her husband’s 
consent, Mrs. Davlin adroitly led his 
thoughts to a less dangerous subject. 

“Dan, have you noticed Ned lately?” 

“No, what’s to notice?” he asked with 
interest. 

“Why, that poor fellow is a wearin’ 
himself to nothin’ a-worryin’ over Susan 
Jane, and she a-treatin’ him just dreadful. 
If your rush is over I’d make him go home 
to his own farm. ’Taint no use of him stay- 
in ’ ’round our place.” 

“G’lang, Charlie!” Mr. Davlin seemed 
not to have heard his wife. 

“Dan, do you hear what I say?” 

“Yes,” he calmly answered. 

“Well, what air you goin’ to do about 
it?” she asked impatiently. 

“Do about it?” he repeated; “why, I 
don’t see as how we can do anything about 
107 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


it. He is a first-class worker, and if lie 
chooses to neglect his own farm for mine, 
I don’t see as how it’s anybody’s business 
but his own.” 

“Yes, but see how that girl treats him.” 

“He ain’t the first feller that was badly 
treated by a girl,” said Mr. Davlin in his 
driest tones, turning half way round in his 
seat to gaze with tender humor at his wife. 
She actually blushed and looked so like a 
certain girl he had known years ago that 
he — well, never mind what he did. Charlie 
put his nose over to Bettie and told her all 
about it; but as for the pair in the light 
wagon, why they drove on in happy silence. 

Susan Jane rose very early every morn- 
ing, did wonders of work before breakfast, 
even on some days did the baking, and after 
the dinner was in a fair way to be cooked, 
rode in a mad gallop to town. The rest of 
the day was spent delving into books, the 
mysteries of which seemed almost impen- 
etrable, struggling with the absurd propo- 
108 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


sition in fractions, laboring with the pen, 
and at intervals praying, oh, so hard ! Pray- 
ing for what? That she might learn enough 
to be a noble woman, like Sister Estelle or 
Mother Joseph. Did she succeed? Earn- 
est natures rarely fail at what they at- 
tempt. A year had scarcely passed when 
Susan Jane could write a very good letter, 
and as for mathematics her uncle was 
charmed with the ease with which she dis- 
posed of his clumsy bills. Her manner of 
speech had changed; but the girl herself 
was unchanged. Her sweet simplicity of 
character remained the same. One day 
her uncle came home from town all agog 
with mischief. 

“ Susan Jane, Susan Jane!” he called, 

‘ ‘ where air you ? There ’s a letter for you. ’ ? 
In answer to his wife ’s startled : 

“Is it from a man? Look at that for 
writing. ’ 9 

The hand was large and dashing. The 
girl took it, and with a slight blush studied 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


it curiously then quietly put it in her 
pocket. The old man winked at his wife, 
and stooping down to pick up her knitting- 
needle whispered : 

“Is that what you done with your 
first ?'' He need not have whispered. 
Susan Jane was in the sitting room reading 
her letter. 

“My Dear Friend :'' the letter ran; “I 
have the honor to write to you. I too have 
been studying all this year, that I might 
he worthy of you. I have been hoping we 
might study together all our lives. If you 
think so I will come over tonight and get 
your answer. I have the honor to be your 
humble servant, Ned Ramsey.” 

Not a very poetical love letter, but it 
was enough. Susan Jane decided she 
wouldn't have him. If the sisters didn't 
want her, well, she could get along without 
a man. Still, with the perversity of her 
sex, she wanted him to come. She did not 
milk the cows, as she wished to save her 
no 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


strength for the interview, which she in- 
stinctively felt would be a hot one. Seven 
o’clock — no Ned. She actually felt lone- 
some. Half past seven. The cows were 
lowing reproachfully. Snatching up her 
pail in not a very beautiful mood, Susan 
Jane went to her task. The moon was up 
before she had finished. She was filled with 
a vague feeling of unrest for Ned, when, 
turning her head, she saw him standing 
by the bars, very quiet and very pale, and 
what was that white sling ! 

“What is the matter, Ned?” Her man- 
ner was agitated, hut he was very calm. 

“Nothing, Susan Jane; I would have 
been here sooner but I broke my arm . 9 ’ 

“Oh, Ned! Does it hurt?” 

‘ 4 Some , 9 9 he laughed. ‘ 4 The doctor said 
I was to stay in bed, but I told him I had 
an engagement tonight. I wonder if I 
have?” he asked wistfully. 

“Ned, I got your letter. It was beauti- 
fully written,” she said, shyly. 

in 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Was the sentiment all right ?” he ask- 
ed, in a low undertone. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

What ailed her? Where were the 
brave resolutions to be a sister, or to care 
for no man? Where had they gone? All 
dissipated by a tender pleading look from a 
pair of honest eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said simply; “I can 
carry the pail with my left hand.” And 
so, without any further parley they walked 
to the house, Ned feeling as if he were float- 
ing on clouds and Susan Jane in a maze at 
her own unconditional surrender. Togeth- 
er they walked into the sitting-room, and, 
standing before the delighted old couple 
Ned told them in manly straightforward 
words that he and Susan Jane were going 
to school together; but it was to the old- 
fashioned school of married life. Jumping 
up, Mr. Davlin clapped Ned vigorously on 
the back, with a hearty, “God bless you, 
lad, I knowed you ’d get there. I’m glad 
1:2 


A FARM HOUSE IDYL 


Susan Jane had sense to say she’d marry 
you. ’ ’ 

Susan Jane woke up. “I never said 
I ’d marry him. ’ 9 Ned started. 

Was she going to play fast and lose, 
as usual! A mighty anger stirred him. Put- 
ting his left arm around her he drew her 
to him in spite of her resistance, and said : 

“You know I meant it, Susan Jane; 
now in the presence of your aunt and uncle 
say what you mean. I have studied to make 
myself worthy of you; I never can be, I 
know , 9 9 he added humbly ; ‘ 4 but if an honest 
love can make you happy, I can give you 
that . 9 9 He was white to the lips. His arm 
was paining dreadfully, and his life’s hap- 
piness hung in the balance. 

Susan Jane in a flash saw all this; she 
reviewed his years of faithful devotion,, 
and the latent love for him sprang to life 
as she said, brokenly: 

“Yes, Ned, you are worthy of me.” 

The Davlin household was very happy 

li ?> 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


that night, but not till Susan Jane and Ned 
were married, and even long after, did Mrs. 
Davlin make a clean breast of all she had 
done to prevent Susan Jane from being a 
sister. Her niece did not express a regret ; 
she only said , i i It mustn ’t have been God ’s 
will. I am so happy as I am. ’ ’ 


114 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A 
SWEETHEART 








































f 








t 























































A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A 
SWEETHEART 


F OR one brief instant intense silence 
reigned. So still was it that the boys’ 
healthy breathing could be distinctly heard. 
Every little fidget for once sat motionless, 
eyes and mouth wide open. The teacher, 
Mr. Cosgrove, S. J., smiled at his intense- 
ly interested audience. His full tones with 
a deep, sympathetic earnestness fell on 
wide-awake ears, his honest gaze met theirs 
unflinchingly. 

“Yes, boys, I repeat, no true manhood 
exists without self-denial, and the boy who 
will not practice it will not make a true 
man. ’ 9 

He had struck the right chord; the boys 
gave vent to a deep breath, looked each at 
his neighbor, then back again at their be- 
loved teacher. There was no getting out 
117 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


of it, he always meant exactly what he said, 
and he had just stated there was no real 
manhood without self-denial; therefore, if 
they desired to be men they must prac- 
tice it. 

“Now, boys,” the rich voice sounded 
again ; “ I am going to ask a great big favor 
of you ; some might call it small ; but meas- 
uring acts by the age of the maker this one 
will be great. ’ ’ 

A gasp of apprehension. 

“You know the competitive examina- 
tion for the gold medal for Christian doc- 
trine takes place in a week. Are you equal 
to the contest? If not, what are you going 
to do ? ’ ’ 

The boys looked grave. 

“I will tell you honestly, you are not 
up to the mark. But if you will take an 
hour daily from your base-ball practice and 
prepare for examination, you may come out 
third best; at all events, you Avill not dis- 
grace your college. I do not tell you to do 
118 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


this. I understand what a sacrifice it will 
be ; I simply place it before you to do as you 
please about it. ’ ’ 

Silence reigned; the blow had fallen; an 
hour from base ball, a sacrifice, it was ter- 
rific. The boys breathed hard, the master 
with difficulty restrained a hearty laugh, 
but he could not keep it from looking 
through his eyes. A downward glance, a 
strong effort at self-restraint, and he again 
met the gaze of his class, but the smile in 
the master’s eyes had been seen and un- 
derstood by at least one of his puplis. 
Johnnie Keeting’s beautiful, big blue orbs 
reflected the master’s smile. Loved by his 
class, as every masterful teacher is by a 
crowd of intelligent boys, he was silently 
worshiped by Johnnie Keeting. Mr. Cos- 
grove understood the attitude of his pupil 
toward him and it humbled him. He knew 
the deep adoration came from a soul as 
spotless as an angel. He understood the 
boy loved him because of the virtues with 
119 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


which he invested his teacher, and the mas- 
ter felt humbled to the dust, knowing his 
own imperfections, but the boy’s ardent 
affection was a mutual benefit. It ennobled 
the lad and purified the master. 

Answering Johnnie’s glance, Mr. Cos- 
grove said: 4 4 Well, boys, what is your de- 
cision?” 

A pause, and then the captain of the 
team said : 4 4 The boys will get licked sure, 
if they don’t get any more coaching than 
they have.” 

4 4 That speaks bad for you, O’Brien,” 
answered Mr. Cosgrove gravely. 4 4 There 
are only two weeks before the match comes 
off and you, their captain, acknowledge 
they are in bad trim. What were you doing 
all year?” 

The boys’ glances expressed great dis- 
couragement, but the captain’s eyes met 
those of the t eacher with a singularly bright 
expression. With a slight misgiving, Mr. 
Cosgrove asked: 


120 


A LOVE STOEY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


“What do you want to say, O’Brien?” 

“Nothing, Mr. CosgroYe; hut I think 
you are in the same box.” 

An electric smile of admiration passed 
through the class in which, after a mo- 
ment’s pause the leader joined. Tim O’- 
Brien had no intention of being pert; he 
simply saw the funny side and could not 
resist giving expression to his thoughts. 
Mr. Cosgrove, wise teacher as he was, ap- 
preciated the situation. 

“Boys, as your captain suggests, if the 
class in Christian Doctrine had been suffici- 
ently drilled all the year, you would not 
now be obliged to cram for examination. 
I suppose it is my fault.” 

“No, no,” enthusiastically interrupted 
the boys 

“Well, it must be yours, then,” he 
laughed. “But, whichever one is in fault, 
myself, yourselves or the numerous studies 
you have, the fact remains, you need study. 
If you give me a week; the examination 
121 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


comes before the game, let ns trust to Prov- 
idence and a little pluck to bring the team 
out all right. ’ ’ He waited ; he knew he had 
gained his point; truth always prevails 
with boys ’ better nature. 

“We’ll do it,” murmured the boys and 
then wondered, as they often did, how a 
smile could make such an austere counten- 
ance as that of their teacher glow with 
beauty. 

“Thank you, boys. It is just now dis- 
missal time, so we will begin on our cram. ’ ’ 

A dead silence followed which was soon 
broken by the opening of desks, pulling out 
of books, and with looks of determination 
worthy of the most heroic martyrs, the 
boys plunged into deep study. Fifteen min- 
utes passed and one anxious youngster 
studied the clock, and then with a deep sigh 
of resignation returned to his task. Five 
minutes after, a haif a dozen impatient 
boys scanned the face of the timepiece ; ten 
minutes later, half the class surveyed the 
122 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


momentous time-teller, but meeting the 
kind but quizzical glance of the teacher, 
bent shamefacedly over their books and 
became so absorbed that when the hour had 
really passed they were surprised. 

‘ ‘ Time is up. Thank you, boys ; you are 
dismissed. ’ ’ 

He smiled when their rousing cheer 
from outside reached him, and his smile 
changed to a sigh. He was thinking what 
fine men they ought to make, but would 
they? To his surprise his sigh was echoed ; 
he turned quickly and found Johnnie Keet • 
ing gazing on him. The love-light in the 
boy’s eyes wounded the heart of the teach- 
er. He was a man every inch of him, and 
in consequence a thoroughly honest char- 
acter, and he asked himself if it would not 
be well to undeceive poor Johnnie. Why 
should he, Paul Cosgrove, a poor, week 
creature, allow the angel boy to worship 
him, as if he were a saint. 

123 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“ Johhnie, come here. Why did you not 
go with the boys!” 

“I would rather stay here,” smiled 
Johnnie. 

“One hour extra not enough?” laughed 
Mr. Cosgrove. 

“It wasn ? t hard, sir. You know I al- 
ways know my Christian Doctrine. ’ 9 

“Yes, I have always noticed that, John. 
What is the reason?” 

“It always seems easy, sir, because — ” 
he blushed and held down his head. 

“Because what?” urged the teacher.. 

“Why, sir I want some day; I don't ex- 
actly — I want to be like you.” 

The teacher started. “See here, John, 
I am not half as good as you think I am. ’ * 

“Good enough for me,” said the boy 
simply. 

“But, come now, I am in dead earnest. 
You must look on me as on an ordinary 
man, trying in my humble way to 
reach the priesthood: so, my lad, do not 

124 


A LOVE STOEY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


try to be like me, but to be far better than 
I am. ’ ’ 

1 ‘I want to be just like yon, Mr. Cos- 
grove, because I love you,” said the hoy 
ardently, and then stopped overwhelmed 
with confusion. “ Because you love me is 
not a good reason; many a one loves an- 
other merely because of personal endow- 
ments; if you tell me you want to be like 
me because of my supposed virtues, all 
right ; but it must not be because you love 
me. Love is often blind, Johnnie. I want 
you to understand, lad, that Mr. Cosgrove 
is a man full of imperfections, aiming at 
what is right; that is all. Don’t place me 
on a pedestal, Johnnie, for some day I’ll 
tumble down and break my crown. I don’t 
tell you, boy, not to love me; but don’t look 
on me as a recognized saint ; pray for me 
though. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Mr. Cosgrove, I do pray for you 
every day, and — honest injun, I do. I do 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


think you are a saint and the rest of the 
fellows do.” 

The last was said with such a tremend- 
ous effort that the words popped out with 
a sharp decision. The tears came to Mr. 
Cosgrove’s eyes. Drawing the boy close 
to him, he said brokenly : 

“Oh, Johnnie, you and the rest of the 
fellows don’t know me. Love God, there 
is no weakness in Him. There, they are 
calling for you.” 

With reluctance, a happy, blushing boy 
joined his class in a game of base ball. 

The boys were steadfast in their resolu- 
tion, and when the day of competition in 
Christian Doctrine arrived, Mr. Cosgrove ’s 
class was best. The exultation of the suc- 
cessful boys could not be restrained. A 
ringing cheer broke from them and when 
Johnnie carried off the medal their joy was 
boundless ; they could hardly contain them- 
selves till the meeting was over. Once on 
the base ball grounds their feelings found 
126 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


relief in somersaults, punching, rollings 
and veilings. 

“Say, you fellows/ ’ yelled the captain, 
“quit your fooling. Instantaneous silence 
followed. “You see, we practiced our self- 
sacrifice, we did, and we got our reward on 
this earth, so we did, and you all know that 
we did because we love Cosgrove so. Jenks ! 
Wasn’t he pleased.” .A hush made the 
juvenile orator turn, and to his confusion, 
he saw Mr. Cosgrove looking at him. With 
his rare, luminous smile beautifying his 
face the teacher said, drawing the much 
embarrassed captain close to him: 

“I was pleased, boys; pleased beyond 
measure that our dear Lord rewarded in 
such a manifest way your heroic self-denial. 
That was true love, boys. One is never 
certain that they love another till that af- 
fection is proved by self-sacrifice.” 

A ringing cheer answered him and then 
the boys, obeying the command of their 
captain, set to work at their base ball. One 
127 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


boy remained apart, his face was grave and 
sad. 

“Johnnie, what is up?” kindly asked 
Mr. Cosgrove. The boy’s face reddened. 

“Why, sir, I love you the best, and I 
did not practice any self-denial. It never 
came hard to stay in, because, because, I 
love to be near you.” He hung his head, 
the master tenderly studied the boy’s most 
expressive face. 

4 ‘ Cheer up, J ohnnie, an opportunity will 
present itself and I am sure, however diffi- 
cult, you will make the best of it.” 

Johnnie brightened. Whatever Mr. 
Cosgrove said was truth, so the self-sac- 
rifice would come. 

Johnnie was girlish in his make-up and 
in feats of strength, such as wrestling and 
fist fights, was oftened worsted ; but he was 
so strong in his moral courage in speaking 
the truth that the boys could not regard him 
as cowardly, although he did not stand high 
in their estimation as an athlete. A simple 
128 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


incident made them regard \their gentle 
companion in the light of a hero. The week 
passed in working np the team, and John- 
nie was kept so busy that he had not time 
to dwell on the short talk he had with Mr. 
Cosgrove on self-sacrifice. Whenever the 
boy had a breathing spell, he ardently wish- 
ed that the longed-for opportunity of prov- 
ing his love for his teacher would come. It 
came in a strange guise. 

The nine were practicing by themselves. 
Mr. Cosgrove had to leave them in order 
to accompany one of the fathers on a sick 
call. As the patient lived at some distance 
outside the city the priest and Mr. Cos- 
grove went in a buggy. Their horse, al- 
though somewhat slow, had at one time 
been a racer and was known to take streaks 
of running away. As the day passed and 
the buggy did not make its appearance on 
the return home, Johnnie grew nervous, 
distracted in his work and played badly. 

‘ ‘ Hello, Keeting ! What the dickens are 

129 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


yon doing, looking down the road instead 
of at the pitcher? 

“Mr. Cosgrove ain’t home yet,” ex- 
plained Johnnie. 

“Well, your playing bad won’t make 
him come any sooner,” yelled the irate 
captain. 

But with one impulse the team dashed 
the picket fence and stared with blanched 
faces up the road, down which a maddened 
horse was wildly plunging. Mr. Cosgrove 
had lost the reins and there was absolutely 
nothing to stop the headlong pace of the 
steed. Beyond the base ball ground was 
a steep, hill, and below that a rickety 
bridge. If the horse was not stopped, their 
beloved master might be killed. The boys 
saw the situation, but their great anxiety 
paralyzed their minds. They could not act. 
Nearer came the buggy; they could di- 
stinctly see Mr. Cosgrove’s face; he was 
pale but cool. And Johnnie saw it, too; 
his love for his teacher made him a hero. 

130 


A LOVE STORY WITHOUT A SWEETHEART 


Dashing over the fence, with a wild yell, 
he raced up to the frantic horse, closely fol- 
lowed by the rest of the boys. They need- 
ed a general to start them into action ; they 
had found him. ’Twas Johnnie Keeting’s 
girlish hand that first seized the reins. In 
the excitement that followed, as the boys 
with one impulse threw themselves on the 
horse and stopped him in his race for death, 
no one noticed that J ohnnie had been 
thrown to the ground. When they found 
him he was insensible. In an agony of un- 
certainty Mr. Cosgrove knelt beside his 
ardent lover. Was he dead? That angel 
boy ; had he taken his flight to heaven? No ; 
Johnnie lived. But for many a long week 
he hovered between life and death. John- 
nie found his sick room a paradise of de- 
lights. Daily visits from his beloved mas- 
ter, worshipful tributes from his adoring 
classmates made the time pass quickly. 

And had he not proved his love? Years 
after, when a newly ordained priest placed 
131 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


liis hand in benediction on the white head 
of Father Cosgrove, he bent towards him 
and said: 

“My precious old father, is not self- 
sacrifice easy when sweetened by love?” 


132 


A “DEESTRICT” SCHOOL IDYL 


OK 


A LITTLE PIECE OF GREEN SOAP 






























































































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A “DEESTRICT” SCHOOL IDYL 


OK 


A LITTLE PIECE OF GREEN SOAP 



HE atmosphere of the little red school 


A house was misty with smoke and there 
were strong indications of trouble. John 
Webster, seated at the end desk, near the 
door, let his long legs slip noisily ahead of 
him, pushing aside the legs of the occu- 
pants of three desks in front. 

“Ah, what are yo’ doin’, Jack?” re- 
monstrated occupant number one. 

“Say, Webster, them’s my legs,” loud- 
ly whispered number two. But number 
three silently cast a look backward. 

John, the autocrat of the boys, because 
of his length, strength and years, yawned 
audibly. ’Twas no easy matter to dance 
all night, and after that strenuous experi- 
ence, to drive a bob-sled full of pretty girls, 


135 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


through a blinding snow storm — and then 
to cipher all morning. ’Twas past all rea- 
son; and again John yawned audibly. The 
little school teacher’s patience had reached 
the limit. 

“John, are you working!” she asked 
with decision. With a guilty start he pulled 
himself together, causing thereby much 
smothered indignation from the boys; but 
the gentleman of the legs was conscious 
only of the teacher’s keen glance. 

He, the dashing beau of the “deestrict,” 
was strangely shy in the presence of this 
little woman; supporting his head in his 
big hands, he seemed immersed in the arith- 
metic. 

‘ 1 J ohn ! ’ ’ Her voice close to his ear made 
him start. “You are interested!” 

“Yes, mam.” He confusedly bent his 
head lower. 

“What is the trouble!” a suspicion of a 
tremor in her voice. 


136 


a “peesteict” school idyl 


i 1 This blamed problem is too many for 
me, ’ ’ he explained. 

‘‘The problem might be clearer if the 
book were not upside down.” The teach- 
er’s little gurgling laugh, with an echoing 
titter, made John, blushing violently, sav- 
agely toss the book into proper position. 
She had hardly reached the platform before 
the long legs again shot under the desks. 

“What is the matter with you, John,” 
asked the amazed little woman. 

“Well,” in answer to a frantic wave of 
the hand from Murt the irrepressible. 

“He’s been to a dance, Miss Burton, 
and his legs is tired.” 

A scathing glance of mingled scorn and 
indignation from John would have anni- 
hilated anybody else but Murt. The latter 
continued : 

“His dad’s just tearing his hair about 
it.” 

“You had better keep tight hold of 
your hair or I ’ll tear it at recess, ’ ’ growled 
137 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


John in tones only audible to those nearer 
the door; a frightened snicker from the 
rear hoys together with an audacious grin 
from Murt, and the valiant vendor of news 
continued : 

1 ‘ His dad told my dad, that if Jack don’t 
stop goin’ to dances he’ll cowhide him.” 

John glared, speechless with indigna- 
tion. It was a well known fact that Web- 
ster the senior was too much for Webster 
the junior in what the country people term 
“a scrap.” 

‘ 4 That will do, Murt. It does not con- 
cern you if John did attend a dance last 
night; you attend to your present work.” 
A shame-faced grin from John at the dis- 
comfitted Murt, and peace reigned. Grate- 
ful for Miss Burton’s championship, John 
again attacked the arithmetic. 

“Three-sevenths plus three-eighths — no 
— four-sevenths. No. Hang the thing! 
What was the matter with the figures danc- 
ing so? Didn’t the parson say last Sunday 
138 


a “deestkict” school idyl 


‘we’re punished for our sins on this 
earth V ” He knew he ought to try, because 
he did like Miss Burton, — but with an un- 
conditional surrender to sleep his big head 
fell gently forward. How long the stolen 
slumber lasted the delinquent knight could 
never tell, he only knew he woke up so 
suddenly and so audibly that he disturbed 
the entire school. 

“John,” his much admired school mis- 
tress spoke sharply; “it might be well for 
you to go home and sleep off the effects of 
last night’s dissipation. 

“Please, excuse me, Miss Burton; it is 
awful hard to study when you are chok- 
ing,” hastily explained John. 

“Choking?” 

“Yes, that chimbley smokes so.” A big 
whiff of smoke confirmed his words; an- 
other and another following in quick suc- 
cession soon set the entire school coughing. 

‘ ‘ What can have happened ? ’ ’ anxiously 
139 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


inquired Miss Burton. This was her first 
term at teaching. 

“Nothin’ much. Chimbley needs clean- 
in laconically stated John. 

“Arithmetic class may stand! Take a 
drink of water, Mary, and that will pre- 
vent the coughing.” 

“Say, teacher, you’d better give recess, 
while us hoys cleans out that stove pipe 
and chimbley,” stated John, standing erect, 
and shaking out each pant ’s leg, and draw- 
ing off his coat. 

“John, what are you about?” 

“About to clean out that chimbley.” 

“Oh, I cannot stop school now.” 

‘ ‘ Mought as well ; it ’s got to be done, ’ ’’ 
said John determinedly. However Miss 
Burton might be his superior in figures, at 
cleaning “chimbleys” she was below par. 

“Will it take long, John?” she anxious- 
ly inquired. 

“Ten minutes.” 


140 


a “deestrict” school idyl 


“Well, children, you may go out for 
recess. ’ ’ 

She had hardly finished when John 
seizing the water bucket spilled its contents 
on the burning coals ; then with the poker 
he gave a mighty thwack to the stove pipe.. 
The result may be easily imagined. Steam, 
smoke and soot made the school house un- 
inhabitable, at least for the gentler sex — 
it was just the atmosphere for a crowd of 
country hoys. John was in his element, 
directing with loud yells the work of dis- 
aster. Everybody seemed threatened with 
an avalanche of soot. The little teacher 
gazing through the open window wrung 
her hands in an agony of consternation. 

“John, look at that floor! We will 
never he able to have class till that is 
cleaned. ’ ’ 

“Certainly not,” promptly answered’ 
the big manager of affairs, ‘ < I hope I know 
how a gentleman should treat a lady. ’ ’ 

“But yoil said ten minutes,” she ex- 
141 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


claimed, not knowing whether to cry or to 
laugh. 

“It may he ten times ten minutes, Miss 
Burton; but you aint a-goin’ to put your 
pretty feet on this floor till it’s washed. 
And me and the kids is goin’ to do it. Here, 
Jim, fling that bucket of water over here, 
throw me that broom, you take the other. 
Tom, skin over to Brown’s and git another 
pail of water and a broom — and say, Tom, 
ask them for a rag or somethin’ to mop this 
up. Git a move on you, Jim. Bill, shake 
out that pipe; — Ned put them elbows on; 
Dick, chop some kindlin’. Whoop hur- 
rah ! ’ ’ And with eyes growing larger, Miss 
Burton saw the boys splash and dash, heard 
the yells, and the crash of breaking wood — 
and vowed a vow, that never, no never, 
would she let John Webster superintend a 
chimney cleaning again. 

“Miss Burton,” turning she saw his 
handsome but much besooted face, “Will 

142 


a “deestrict” school idyl 


yon please take the girls up to Brown’s 
and stay there till we finish. ’ 9 

“No, John, I’ll do nothing of the kind. 
You told me it would take only ten minutes, 
and by the appearance of things we wont 
be in that school house for hours, and even 
then — 99 John the bashful asserted himself. 

“All the more reason for you to go to 
Brown’s. Give us a half hour and the floor 
will be dry.” 

“Dry,” Miss Burton’s red lip curled. 
John’s eyes had a dangerous glint. 

“If you don’t take the girls, they’ll 
ketch cold.” That settled the matter; the 
feminine portion of the school quickly dis- 
appeared round a turn in the road. He 
breathed freer. 

“Now, you fellows hustle! Rub up that 
floor, Jim. Don’t let that branch of the 
Missouri reach the Mississippi. Darn your 
picture, dry it up. Run in that pipe. Suf- 
ferin’ snakes. What are you gaping about 
Tom? Run her in. Here, where the devil 

143 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


are those matches. Light her up! Rub 
these desks lively ! Don’t you let a patch of 
soot stay in this school house, or I’ll wipe 
your faces in that black snow. Teddy, go 
over there to Millet’s and borrow a bar of 
soap and a towel. No, you don’t wash in 
black snow. You’re all agoin’ to look like 
gentlemen a-settin’ in a clean house, when 
Miss Burton comes back. She’s white, 
kids, and we’ve got to treat her decent. 
Ted, you’re greased lightnin’! Thank you 
my boy. Gee ! this green soap has a sweet 
smell ! My ! but it ’s nice ! Did you tell Nettie 
Millet who wanted it?” 

“Yes, I tole her, and she said ‘Jack 
wants some soap? He’ll get the best I 
have ’. ’ ’ 

“She’s a lady,” grinned John. “Here, 
fellows, wash up brisk. Come here, Frank 
and I’ll polish your phiz as your mother 
used to do. Stop your hollerin’. My! your 
face shines like a nigger’s heel. Kids, take 
your places. Tim, run to Brown’s and 

144 


A ( * DEESTKICT 9 9 SCHOOL IDYL 


tell her school’s called.” And this is the 
sight that met Miss Burton’s much aston- 
ished gaze. A school house shining with 
cleanliness, and hoys with faces outshin- 
ing the room, sitting in order at their 
desks. A delighted “Thank you, John!” 
set that worthy hack into an agony of bash- 
fulness, but for the rest of the day the 
teacher had nothing with which to find 
fault. Her knight of the soot was most 
assiduous in his devotion to his studies. 
In fact, he seemed to he in a small ecstasy 
of delight over them. Murt, the keen-eyed, 
could have informed Miss Burton that 
whenever John took a deep sniff of a piece 
of green soap, his ecstasy was renewed. 
School dismissed, her long legged pupil 
lingered behind the rest. 

“Well, John?” 

“I’m a-waitin’ for the towel; it belongs 
to the Millets.” 

“Very well, but, John, dear, I wish you 
would be more in earnest about your 
145 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


studies. You are very bright, but so back- 
ward; you know, the directors told me I 
needn’t take you; you are twenty,” said 
Miss Burton. A deep flush dyed his hand- 
some cheek. 

‘ ‘ Twenty-one, next Christmas, Miss 
Burton. I wouldn’t come to school only 
along of dad. He’s great at book learnin’ 
— and nothin’ will do him but for me to 
make a fool of myself,” and John shook 
his big, square shoulders impatiently. 

“You are not making a fool of your- 
self, John, if you would only sacrifice the 
pleasure of dancing for a while,” coaxed 
the teacher. John grinned shamefacedly, 
as he answered. 

“A young feller must have fun; if I 
don’t dance now, I can’t dance when I get 
dad’s age. He’s got the rheumatiz, and 
he’s all fired hard on a feller. You’d never 
think he was once the boss dancer of the 
deestrict. ’ ’ 

“One year during the time you’re at 

146 


a “deestrict” school idyl 


school will not detract much from the pleas- 
ure you can afterwards have in dancing, ’ ’ 
coaxed Miss Burton. 

“I suppose not.’’ John had a most pro- 
found respect for Miss Burton’s learning 
and virtue. “But to give up dancing.” 

“Come, now, John, we must learn the 
great lesson of life is self sacrifice. I don’t 
think you know anything about it. Did 
you, after your night of dancing, get up 
early this morning to feed the cattle?” 

“Indeed no — Dad done it,” laughed 
John. 

‘ ‘ Do you think it quite right to let your 
poor father get up in the cold to do your 
work f ’ ’ 

A picture of Mr. Webster’s portly di- 
mensions floated before John’s amused 
vision and he laughed outright, “Dad aint 
very poor, Miss Burton.” 

“That may be. But it would have hap- 
pened just the same, if he had been poor. 

147 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


Yon have always followed your will, re- 
gardless of others, John.” 

“Yes, dad, he spoilt me, I guess. This 
is the first time the old man rubbed up 
against me, — in keeping me at school and 
trying to do me out of dancing.” 

“He has been good to you, John!” she 
asked. 

“Good!” John’s face kindled; “Dad’s 
the best feller in the world.” 

“He gives you everything you need!” 
she persisted. 

“Dad! Why, dad would give me the 
moon if he could get it,” laughed he. 

‘ ‘ How much have you given him, John, ’ ’ 
the teacher ’s voice was low. The big over- 
grown boy looked puzzled, a light of com- 
prehension flashed across his mobile face, 
and he said humbly : 

“Noughin’ much except a whole lot of 
trouble, especially ’bout the dancin,.” 

“And you will give up your favorite 

pleasure for a year, John, for . ” 

148 


a '‘deestrict” school idyl 


“Gee! A year! Gosh! You take my 
breath, Miss Burton.” 

‘ ‘ John, you will soon think of marry- 
ing; and what kind of a husband will you 
make, if now, you cannot sacrifice your 
pleasure to please a father that would give 
you everything he has? You are selfish; 
and a selfish man will never make a noble 
husband . ’ 7 At the beginning of this speech, 
John, overwhelmed by bashfulness, dug 
the toe of his boot into the snow, or shifted 
his weight from back to front ; but the last 
sentence evoked a flash of anger. 

“What do you mean by selfish, teacher? 
Ma says Pm the most generous of the hull 
ten of us.” 

“Generous with whose property, John? 
Have you anything yet of your own ? Does 
not your father keep you supplied in 
money? Granting that you are generous, 
when it does not cost either you or your 
comfort anything, I shall persist in calling 

149 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


you selfish. Do you ever do anything that 
is really distasteful to you?” 

“Not if I can help it. Why should a 
feller be silly enough to do that? 

“Because in order to please others, we 
must frequently do violence to our own 
most sacred feelings. Do you acknowledge 
that you are selfish, John?” With a grin 
of amusement at his own close cornering he 
admitted that he guessed he was. 

“To develop noble manhood, you must 
develop self-sacrifice. We will begin on 
dancing. When that act of denial is over, 
I will teach you how to practice others. 

“Great Scott! That’s enough for 
years to come,” laughed John. But as if 
a sudden comprehension of Miss Burton’s 
anxiety to help him flashed on his intelli- 
gent mind, he held out his big, brown hand 
with boyish awkwardness saying : 

“Thank you, teacher, I’ll swear off.” 
He was amazed at the sudden beauty that 
flashed into her face. 


150 


A ‘ ‘ DEESTKICT , * SCHOOL IDYL 


“John, this is grand!” 

“I don’t know about the grandeur , Miss 
Burton. I know it will be precious hard 
to keep it; but if you want it, it’s got to 
be done.” 

“No, John, not for me. Do it because 
it is the right thing* to do.” Again a grin 
of amusement came. He answered good 
humo redly, 

“Well, you can call it any old thing you 
like. I ’ll take that key up to Millet’s. 
Good-bye, Miss Burton.” So saying he 
climbed the hill to Millett’s. 

Many times on his short scramble thith- 
er that little piece of green soap was ap- 
plied to his nose and sniffed with great 
gusto. The house reached, John soon found 
himself in the “sittin’ room,” where the 
women of the household, five in number, 
were busily engaged cutting carpet rags. 
The young man’s keen glance swept the 
circle, till his ardent gaze rested on the 
youngest and prettiest of the girls. 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“How-dy do, all? Sakes! but you’ve 
got a heap of carpet rags ! Teacher sent the 
key, — and here’s your towel. Where ’si 
your shears, Nettie. I’ll cut for a while.” 
He took the scissors and a plump little hand 
in his, saying sympathizingly, “Now, Mrs. 
Millett, I call this hard lines. If Nettie’s 
fingers hasn’t got ridges in ’em. This work 
aint fit for you women. Just drop your 
shears and I’ll cut for all of you.” A 
merry laugh followed, but the women, real- 
ly tired, gladly desisted ; a short bantering 
ensued, and then as it neared supper time 
one by one, the mother and sisters de- 
parted, leaving John and Nettie alone. 
John, the dashing knight of the shears, 
grew strangely shy in the presence of his 
little sweetheart, till in leaning forward, 
n piece of green soap falling from his 
pocket renewed his courage. 

“Nettie, did you send this to me?” 

“Yes,” she answered shyly, deeply in- 
152 


a “deestrict” school idyl 


terested in matching the colors of the car- 
pet rags. 

4 6 Why did yon send it to me dear, ’ ’ his 
voice was sweet and low, and his eyes seem- 
ed to read her heart, as with an assumption 
of ease she answered, 

4 ‘ What do you suppose I sent it for? 
Didn’t you want to wash off the soot?” 
Poor John was non-plussed. 

“It smells good,” he ventured. 

“Does it?” She smothered a laugh. 
John heard it, however, and his shyness 
gave way to anger. 

“Nettie, you sent that nice smelling 
•soap to make up with me. You know you 
did. You’ve been mad with me since the 
last dance we was together down at Har- 
ney’s. And you wanted to make up. Oh! 
sweetheart, don’t get mad. If you wanted 
it, so did I, a hundred times more; and 
when I seen tins piece of green soap, I 
could have eaten it for joy.” The thought 
of John eating soap was too much for his 
153 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


irate mistress and she laughed aloud. In 
that moment of unguardedness, he seized 
and pressed her to his heart. What he said 
was very much mixed up with kisses and 
green soap — hut both were satisfied and 
when John departed, he carried that little 
piece of soap in his left breast pocket. 

The following week was one of unal- 
loyed pleasure for Miss Burton. John was 
bright, keen-eyed, and studious. It had 
been an interval of peace for him, too — 
no dances were on hand, consequently no 
temptations. But danger was looming up 
slowly but surely; some ten days after the 
promise, Miss Burton at recess caught the 
following : 

“Say, Jack, how many of the boys is 
goin’ up to Dimick’s big dance V 9 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered 
John with an affectation of indifference. 
The other lad stared; the fact of Jack’s 
not knowing all the essentials that went to 

154 


A i ‘ DEESTKICT ’ ’ SCHOOL IDYL 


make a successful dance was awe inspir- 
ing. 

“Say, fellers, Jack don’t know how 
many fellers is goin’ to Dimick’s dance!” 

* ‘ Ah, dry up ! He ’s stuff in ’ you ! ’ ’ 

“Tell us, Jack.” 

“X don’t know, I tell you,” impatiently 
retorted Jack. 

“Cracky! that’s funny; aint you’ 
goin’?” 

“Naw.” 

“Why?” from a simultaneous chorus. 

“Sprained my ankle.” A shout of de- 
rision. 

“He is too goin’. Nettie Millett said 
he was goin’ to take her,” piped up one of 
the girls. John started. It was only nat- 
ural that Nettie should expect that courtesy, 
when John and she were to he married at 
the close of the school year. Up the hill 
went a much perplexed knight. 

“Not going to take me to the dance!” 

155 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


ejaculated the hot tempered Nettie. “Welt* 
I never! after me telling all the girls. ” 

Poor John explained, reasoned, plead- 
ed, all in vain. His angered sweetheart 
would not listen. At length the unfortu- 
nate fellow put his foot into it, when he 
stammered : 

“Now, Nettie, I can’t go back on my 
word to the teacher. 1 promised her I 
wouldn’t dance for a year.” 

A shriek from Nettie nearly paralyzed 
the young man. Expostulations were in 
vain, his sweetheart had reached a state 
of jealousy where reason played no part. 
Somewhat disgusted, her lover took his de- 
parture, and the morning after the dance,. 
Miss Burton’s delighted gaze rested on 
John, stern and hardworking. But the 
poor lad was very miserable. Two weeks 
elapsed after which his wayward mistress 
concluded she would make up, and for an- 
other brief space, John walked on air. But, 
alas for the course of true love! The sec- 

156 


a “deestrict” school idyl 


ond dance caused a final rupture. Miss 
Burton’s earnest little lecture had evoked 
the latent manhood of the hoy, and that to- 
gether with the fact that his sweatheart 
wished him to break his word of honor con- 
tributed not a little to disillusion him ; and 
her bad temper did the rest. It was a hard 
trial — the first great passion of a man’s 
heart moves him to his center — John be- 
lieved this affection for Nettie was the one 
great love of his life. Heart-weary, he re- 
mained in the school house during an af- 
ternoon recess to enjoy the luxury of a mel- 
ancholy retrospect, and it was some time be- 
fore he became aware he was not alone. On 
the opposite side of the room, at a desk on 
a line with his own, sat Mary Willis, ap- 
parently in a deep study; attracted in spite 
of himself John studied her. Hers was a 
personality that did not win at once, her 
face in repose was severe, strength of pur- 
pose, the practice of patient endurance in 
the trials of poverty made her look older- 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


than her years, but as her expression 
varied as often as did her thought, her face 
lighted up with eager intelligence. After 
the doll beauty of Nettie Millett, Mary’s 
austere countenance appealed to John; he 
continued watching it, till a sudden side 
glance in his direction from the girl re- 
vealed to her his occupation. With a burn- 
ing blush which for the time transformed 
her plain face into one of beauty, she said : 

“X didn’t know you was there.” 

He laughed easily and began talking to 
her. It was not long before the girl’s whole 
pathetic history was revealed to him. 

“Goin’ to Dimick’s dance, Mary? 

“No, I aint going. I like dancing, but 
I aint got dresses good enough for dances, 
and besides — she added with a laugh — ‘ 6 No- 
body asked me.” 

“They didn’t; that’s a shame.” Oh, 
the temptation of it. Talk about self sacri- 
fice ! Here was a chance ; why should not 
he, the son of a rich farmer, take this poor 

153 


a “deestkict” school idyl 


girl to the dance? With all his faults, 
John had, whenever he chose to practice 
it, a fund of common sense, and the latter 
told him that taking Mary to the dance was 
one point for her pleasure and two for his 
own. 

“Aint you nobody’s girl, Mary?” he 
asked. Suddenly, Mary grew pretty as 
she answered simply, “No, I’m too poor, 
besides I haven’t any time to think of such 
things. ’ ’ 

“John’s gaze riveted on her, he con- 
tinued with a flash of mischief. 

‘ ‘ What — things. ’ ’ 

She blushed as she answered, ‘ ‘ Oh, you 
know. ’ ’ 

Enjoying her embarrassment, he per- 
sisted, 

“You haven’t any time for what things, 
Mary?” 

“Boys, — and such.” 

“Oh, aint you never had no beau, 
Mary? A pretty girl like you had ought 
159 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


to have a good one.” John was not flatter- 
ing, for at that moment Mary Willis was 
indeed pretty. 

“No, I never had one. Me and ma to- 
gether with Jim has had the runnin’ of 
the farm ever since father died. I just 
love book learning, but Jim he’s a year 
younger than me, and he ’s awful bright, so 
ma wanted to educate him, and I stayed to 
home and did the chores, while he came 
every winter to school. Now, he knows 
enough, so they ’lowed I had ought to come 
to school this year. 

“Sacrifice!” John’s pride was low in 
the dust before the nobility of this poor 
girl. “Mary, that was a big sacrifice,” he 
burst out. 

“Not much of a one. Ma says there aint 
no getting into heaven without sacrifice.” 
J ohn answered humbly : 

“I’m awful sorry I can’t take you to 
this dance, Mary, but teacher made 

1G0 


me 


A * * DEESTRICT * ’ SCHOOL IDYL 


promise, to please dad, that I’d give up 
dancing for a year. ’ ’ 

Mary had long in secret liked her 
handsome school fellow, and now with a 
genuine burst of admiration, she said. 

“Law! me, Jack, ihat’s a sacrifice , a 
hull year ! 

“Nothin’ to yourn,” he answered hum- 
bly. “But say, Mary, — dad, he promised 
to give me the biggest blow-out the dee- 
strict ever seen if I keep my promise. So, 
now, I want you to promise me you’ll be 
my partner at my big dance.” 

Mary’s face glowed with delight, but 
a sudden memory shadowed it, and she 
said, “But, Nettie — John — aint Nettie and 
you to be married then?” 

‘ ‘ She spread the news quickly, ’ ’ thought 
the young man bitterly. “Do you see this, 
piece of green soap, Mary?” 

Somewhat amazed, she answered that 
she did. 

“Well, she give me that, and see, — ” he 
161 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


tossed it into the stove — “that’s the same 
as me and her.” 

Mary was a thorough woman, and the 
woman in her rebelled at the insult offered 
to another. 

“You had ought to he ashamed of your- 
self, Jack! Engagements is solemn things; 
and you can’t throw them away as light- 
ly as a piece of soap.” 

“Yes, when the woman is as light as 
that,” he retorted. 

“Oh, I am ashamed of you; I thought 
you was a gentleman. ’ ’ 

In his sudden and genuine admiration 
of Mary, Nettie seemed as if she had never 
existed; his sole thought at that moment 
was to set himself right in the estimation of 
this pretty champion of woman. 

“Mary, Nettie wanted me to break my 
word of honor with the teacher,” he said 
earnestly. Mary’s mobile face changed. 

“She did! That was wrong; but maybe 
she had a reason.” 


162 


A * ‘ DEESTRICT f ’ SCHOOL IDYL 


i 1 Yes, her own pleasure and vanity. See 
here, Mary. I don’t want to throw no dirt 
at any woman, but truth is truth. I thought 
I loved Nettie, but I don’t. I just can’t re- 
spect her. She’s all right. Nettie is awful 
pretty, she is — hut when a man’s goin’ to 
marry, he wants something else besides 
good looks — he wants principle — he does.” 

Well done, John! Love is a great de- 
veloper of character; a few weeks before, 
the speaker was not such a great stickler 
for principle. The recess ending, this in- 
teresting conversation was brought to a 
close. But it had its fruit. Before the 
termination of the year, John the easy, the 
gallant cavalier with all girls in general, 
with Mary Willis was agitated or reserved. 
The reason? He discovered that she was 
the woman of his heart. This state of things 
to her was a real grief, as the girl fully re- 
alized that she had given all the earnest 
love of her soul to John Webster, and had 
given it unasked — to him who only regard- 
163 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


ed her with pity. Hence, she too, in turn 
met him with reserve. Now that he under- 
stood that his devotion for Mary Willis was 
the one great passion of his life, he made 
endless opportunities to be with her alone, 
but could never muster courage enough to 
find out how he stood in her regard. And 
this was the state of affairs, the eve before 
his great dance. He had been brave enough 
to make her promise, she would permit 
him to drive her to his house, thinking that 
if that drive didn’t settle affairs nothing 
would. Mary, dressed in simple white, 
never looked sweeter than when seated in 
the brand new buggy, the moonlight soft- 
ening each feature of her face. Both were 
strangely silent; the drive was long, but 
as is usual in those cases, — very sweet. 
Suddenly, John reined in his mettlesome 
steed and pointing with his whip towards 
a pretty vine-embowered cottage asked his 
companion in a husky voice, if she liked it. 
Yes, she thought it lovely. Was it big 
161 


A * ‘ DEESTRICT ’ ’ SCHOOL IDYL 


enough for two ? There were six rooms in 
it — of coarse, more could be put on when 
needed. He was finding his voice in the 
joy that she liked it. 

‘ ‘ Mary, dad’s so tickled at what he 
calls my honor, that besides the dance to- 
night, and I tell you it’s a Joe Dandy one, 
— he ’ll give me the day of my marriage that 
cottage and the sixty acres around it. 
That’s not much of a farm, but me and dad 
is going to work the old farm on shares. 
All the rest of the family is provided for; 
Dad either sot them up or they sot them- 
selves up. Dad’s a rich man, you know.” 
That last sentence was an unfortunate one. 
In a flash, Mary remembering her poverty, 
thought bitterly that his kindness to her 
was prompted only by pity and her young 
face grew so stern that even the mellow 
moonlight could not soften it. Jack read 
the expression awrong. “She don’t love 
me,” he thought sadly. His highmettled 

1G5 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


steed, impatient of inaction, dashed for- 
ward. 

“Ugh, Dick, what’s wrong? I’m in no 
hurry, but” — he ventured “better give him 
his head; hey, Mary? Or do you want to 
look at the cottage longer?” He hung on 
her answer. 

“No, give him his head,” she said wear- 
ily. She had been dreaming and the 
dream was past. The drive thence was 
short, and they were soon in the midst of a 
laughing, impatient crowd. 

“Jack,, what kept you?” asked his 
father, as he took Mary, pale and trembling 
in his arms and carefully placed her on the 
front step of the porch. 

4 ‘ N aughtin ’. Am I late, dad ? ’ ’ 

“Great Scott! boy we began to think 
you and Mary had visited the squire,” and 
Mr. Webster laughed, as he looked kindly 
at the now rosy girl. The old man in- 
stinctively felt that his son’s choice was a 
good one; and judging him by himself, 
166 


A i ‘ DEESTEICT 9 ’ SCHOOL IDYL • 


thought a long drive must have settled 
everything, so taking the girl’s hand in 
his he began “My dear — ” when his wife 
interrupted him, and his congratulations 
were not spoken. 

The manner in which Mary conducted 
herself that evening was a mystery and a 
misery to John. She was looking her best 
and acting her gayest with a little bit of 
deviltry mixed in. Finally, as the evening 
wore away with nothing definite done, 
John retired to the vine covered porch, and 
here his kind, old father found him. 

“Well, Jack! Sick, boy?” 

“Most — dad. Mary, she don’t care for 
me, dad,” his voice broke; once more he 
was a little fellow, telling his grief to dad, 
“the best fellow in the world.” The old 
man throwing a caressing arm around his 
son’s broad shoulder, asked anxiously. 

“Has she thrown you off, boy?’ ’ 

“ ’Bout that, dad.” 

“Did you ask her John?” 


167 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“No, dad, I daren’t.” 

‘ i Fudge ! Here mother, ’ ’ to his wife ap- 
pearing in the doorway, “Here’s John 
sick about Mary Willis. He thinks she 
don’t care for him.” 

“He does, does he, that’s all he knows 
about it,” and the portly form of Mrs. 
Webster disappeared only to reappear ac- 
companied by Mary. The girl approach- 
ing John, said, timidly, 

“Hid you want me, John! Your mother 
said you wanted me.” 

John hesitated till a sharp nudge in his 
ribs and a stage whisper from his father, 
“Ask her, boy, ask her,” started the right 
impulse, and holding out his arms, he said 
in a voice shaken with love, 

“Want you, Mary? I want you for 
all.” Her complete surrender intoxicated 
him with delight. 

“He’s gone and done it, mother,” 
chuckled the old man, and tiptoeing off the 
168 


A * ‘ DEESTRICT 7 9 SCHOOL IDYL 


porch the old couple stood in the glory of 
the moonlight. 

“This night forty years ago, he whisp- 
ered. ’ 7 Her answer was to lay a snow white 
head on his broad chest and to look her 
thought. There is no age for true love. 


169 




TO HIM WHO WAITS 



TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“TT is oppressively warm, Uncle John. 

A Do yon not find it so f ’ ’ asked Eleonore, 
letting her bright gaze wander around the 
crowded house. 

4 4 Quite so, dear. Allow me to remove 
your cloak; is that better V 9 

The genial old gentleman, with old- 
fashioned courtesy, attended to the com- 
forts of his niece, next directed his atten- 
tion to his wife who smilingly, but silently, 
signified that she needed nothing, and then 
with a sigh of genuine pleasure, settled 
himself back in his chair. 

4 4 This minstrel business is great! It 
is so refreshing to enjoy a good laugh. 
Ha! ha! ha! By Jove! that Bones is im- 
mense, Eleonore, isn ’t it a pity we left this 
until our last night ? ’ ’ 

4 4 Oh, Uncle J ohn, you cannot mean that 
173 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


this is better than The Lady of Lyons V 9 
softly asked Eleonore. 

The conversation, carried on in par- 
enthical pauses between the jokes, was 
politely inaudible to the persons in front 
of them. 

“ Child, as Hamlet says — Ha! ha! ha! 
I declare that fellow put the quotation, 
clean out of my head — let me see — ‘Suit 
the action to the word, the word to the 
action; with this special observance: that 
you o’er-step not the modesty of nature , 9 
— Now, unless the hero of The Lady of 
Lyons is a good actor, it is fearful stuff. 
Here we have nature in all — ha! ha! ha! 
Capital! Well, dear, what is the trouble V 9 
he asked, noticing his niece’s glance fixed 
upon him. 

“Nothing but you, darling, you are 
laughing so heartily and showing so much 
of your teeth, and altogether looking so 
handsome that you are attracting as much 
174 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


attention from the house as the darkies 
themselves, ’ 7 she laughingly explained. 

The handsome old gentleman, casting 
around a lightning glance of his brilliant 
hazel eyes, smiled a genial response. A 
chorus following, a gentleman some seats 
below, attracted by Mr. Savaged genuine 
mirth, approached the group. 

“I beg pardon — but I believe I am ad- 
dressing Mr. Savage, editor of ‘The New 
Orleans Times.’ ” 

Jumping agilely to his feet, with ex- 
tended hand, the old gentleman, with a pro- 
found bow, replied ; “You are, sir ! Glad to 
meet you, Mr. — ” 

“Allison, sir! Allison is my name. I 
am not a celebrity, but I am an old citizen 
of New Orleans; and I have long wished 
to meet you. Thank you; I do not mind 
standing. Bones is speaking.” 

A pause ensued, and again bending over 
Mr. Savage, Mr. Allison continued softly ; 
“Yes, Mr. Savage, your editorial page has 
175 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


been an inspiration to me and when, last 
Sunday, I read of your resignation, I felt 
as though I had lost a good friend. ’ ’ 

Jumping to his feet, Mr. Savage again 
bowed and shook hands with his newly 
made friend, then re-seating himself said: 
“It is with regret that I sever my con- 
nection with the Times; until lately our 
relations have been most cordial. There! 
the middle man is going to speak. Poor — 
very poor — stiff as a statue. No darky 
about him. Singer, you say? Oh yes, 
has a magnificent voice — but no actor. 
The reasons for my resignation V 9 He 
laughed a low, genial laugh. “Here it is 
in a nutshell ! Although the war is ended, 
the sentiment still remains; I tried to act 
honestly, according to my convictions, and 
at the same time I tried not to wound 
home — sentiment — but you understand. I 
am pretty much in the fix that Goldsmith ’s 
good-natured man found himself.” 

“No sir! Goldsmith’s man was a weak 
176 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


personage. Allow me to say, without vio- 
lating any rule of courtesy, that you have 
always been a consistent, honest North- 
erner, and I admire you for it! ’Pon my 
soul! I do. There! the curtain is down. 
When do you leave for the North! Or is 
it possible to keep you here?” asked Mr. 
Allison earnestly. 

The audience pushed by them, swayed 
’round them, and knocked against them, 
but the two continued talking, till an ar- 
rangement being made to meet again on 
board the Leviathan, they parted. 

The next day Mr. Allison stood on deck 
of the mammoth steamboat in earnest con- 
versation with Mr. Savage. Eleonore Sav- 
age, hanging on the arm of her uncle, was 
an interested listener. The two gentlemen 
seemed drawn towards each other by a 
strong personal magnetism. 

“I don’t care if I do, Mr. Savage,” 
drawled Mr. Allison, “I am just now a 
man of leisure, my overseer is trust-worthy 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


and I have long desired to go North to see 
what manner of place it is you Northerners 
are so mighty proud of. ’ ’ 

Mr. Savage was a picture of delight. 
‘ ‘ By Jove ! this is immense. Eleonore, here, 
was telling me only this morning how in 
our chance meeting last evening she was 
instinctively drawn towards you. ’ ’ 

Mr. Allison quickly doffed a wide 
brimmed, soft felt hat, and bowing low, 
said: 4 ‘Your charming niece-does me too 
much honor.’ ’ 

“No, by heaven! she does not. I am 
more than half in love with you, myself. 
Come with us, my dear fellow, and all the 
North shall be yours.” 

“Yes, come with us, Mr. Allison. 
You will be such an addition to our 
party. ’ ’ 

“I am almost induced, but stay! two 
hours before the Leviathan leaves the dock ; 
I suppose I could get my traps together in 
that time, and also notify my overseer. He 

178 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


is used to my springing surprises on him. 
Yes, it is a compact. I shall link my fortune 
to yours till we reach the North, and then if 
you are thoroughly tired of me, you can 
shake me off.” His thin, dark face glowed 
with animation. 

“ Shake you off, you say? If you wait 
to be shaken, I fancy you will wait a long 
time, Mr. Allison. Come! he off with you 
or you will not make it. To tell you the 
honest truth, you Southerners have one 
trait in common that makes me fear this 
plan of ours will fall through.” 

“And that is — ” asked the other with 
a smile. 

“You are all so cussedly lazy, if you 
will pardon the compliment.” 

“Enough said! Savage, I’ll make you 
eat your words or I’ll eat my hat. Adieu, 
for a few hours. ’ ’ And with a bow and a 
rush Mr. Allison dashed down the plank, 
running headlong into a party of gentle- 
men on the point of going up. 

179 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Beg pardon,” said one. 

‘ ‘ Certainly, certainly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Mr. Savage, you say f ’ 9 asked another. 

“Editor of The New Orleans Times,” 
replied Mr. Allison. 

“Late editor, you mean,” corrected the 
gentleman. 

“Yes, to he sure, that is he looking at 
you from the deck,” and many other brok- 
en sentences floated upward to two most 
interested listeners. 

“Why, I declare, Eleonore! those gen- 
tlemen must be looking for- me. Know 
them? No, not one. Yes, there is Bronson 
— and Williams, Johnson and — well, by 
Jove! I call this handsome. Glad to meet 
you gentlemen.” Mr. Savage’s handsome 
face beamed with good natured benignity. 

“Mr. Savage,” said the leader step- 
ping forward, “it is my pleasure and my 
regret to hold the position of spokesman 
today on behalf of the many interested 
readers of The New Orleans Times. My 
180 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


duty today is to express on their behalf 
the admiration your noble editorial work 
has evoked. An editor, sir, is a medium of 
knowledge whom the speaker is unable to 
reach. When the man in question, the 
editor, wields a strong pen, his influence is 
incalculably great. Your pen has done good 
clean work. You never flinched when the 
wrong was to be exposed, if the exposure 
was to effect good. Your paper was not a 
hash up of gossip, it had news, real genu- 
ine news — you never failed to put forth a 
helping hand to the poor and erring, you 
strove to unite the sad differences existing 
between the North and South — and after 
all that noble work we are about to lose 
you! Sir, it will be difficult to find your 
equal. Allow me to express the heart-felt 
regret of your friends and admirers, and 
further permit me to wish you a golden 
life of happiness in the state to which you 
are going. I have done. ’ ’ 

Mr. Savage ’s eyes sparkled with a sus- 
181 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


picious moisture, and he had to clear his 
throat several times before he spoke. In 
a neat little speech he told them that it 
was worth while resigning to find out how 
much they thought of him. His speech 
ended, introductions followed in which his 
wife and niece took part. A couple of hours 
passed so pleasantly that the late editor of 
The New Orleans Times had not given any 
thought to Mr. Allison; but when the com- 
mittee on regrets had tramped down the 
plank, and immediate preparations for 
departure began to take place, the old gen- 
tleman grew very nervous. 

“This is really too bad, if that fine fel- 
low is late. I don’t know when I have met 
a man I liked more at first sight than I do 
Mr. Allison. There is some mystery about 
him though; I am afraid his past has been 
a trifle fast. Those rich Southerners have 
so many temptations to contend with — 
riches, unrestrained passions — but we will 
bring him ’round, see if we don’t. Let’s 
182 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


ask your aunt Fannie what she thinks of 
him, Eleonore. I have never known your 
aunt to make a mistake in her estimation 
of a character.” 

The love of Mr. Savage for his wife and 
his perfect trust in her wisdom was an- 
other beautiful trait of the old gentleman’s, 
and on her part his chivalrous devotion 
was thoroughly appreciated. 

The old lover husband, to her, had but 
three faults. The first and greatest ; though 
he was a comparatively poor man, he 
always lived up to the very last dollar he 
received because of his boundless gener- 
osity ; second, he would write when she felt 
like talking — but of course she had to hold 
her tongue till the mood left him; third, 
he would forget to come to his meals, even 
forget that a dinner party awaited him, if 
he got deep in a discussion or an editorial. 
As she was luxurious in her tastes and a 
model of regularity and promptness, these 
little traits of character tried her quite 
183 


SNAPSHOTS BY TPIE WAY 


severely; but she practiced, on her side, the 
self-denial that always goes with true af- 
fection and no word of complaint ever 
passed her lips, to him. 

Sometimes, when her patience was well 
nigh exhausted, Eleonore was her confi- 
dante. This loving young woman soothed 
her aunt and in private scolded her uncle, 
whose humble penitence would have made 
atonement for frailties greater than his; 
but those same misdemeanors once atoned 
for, were quickly repeated; perhaps be- 
cause so quickly forgiven. 

One way in which he showed his respect 
for his wife’s judgment was to act on her 
opinion in continuing his plans or friend- 
ships; so in the case of Mr. Allison, Mr. 
Savage was delighted to find that she was 
favorably impressed by his new friend. 

At this juncture, as the plank was about 
to be withdrawn from the gang-way, Mr. 
Allison rushed wildly upon it to the deck 
and the boat pushed off. 

184 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


Two days’ companionship on the water 
is equal to months of association on the 
land, so on the evening of the second day, 
the two men, sitting in a corner, alone 
on the deck, fell into a silence, the 
speaking silence that often occurs when 
congenial souls hold converse. It was 
broken at last by Mr. Allison’s soft drawl- 
ing Southern tones, — “Mr. Savage, what 
faculty is it which you possess of drawing 
all classes of people to you! Tell me the 
secret. ’ ’ 

“I do not know.” 

“Is it your happiness? You have never 
known sorrow?” 

Mr. Savage’s expressive face was very 
sad as he answered : 4 ‘ My dear friend, you 
have answered your own question. ’Tis 
the sorrow I have known. ’Tis the Gol- 
gotha that I have ascended, with reluctance, 
until the Master taught me the secret of 
resignation, that has given me that — 
185 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


that — ” he hesitated. Mr. Allison quickly 
finished the sentence. 

“Magnetism — that is the word. Yes 
sir, you are a magnet. And you have suf- 
fered sorrow ?” he gently asked. 

“Yes, more than I can just now tell 
you. For one — I have lost all my children ; 
Nine of them ; thank God ! by death or ac- 
cident. ’ 9 

His friend gasped. Reaching out his 
hand, he clasped the other’s in a warm 
grasp. 

“Great God! I never would have im- 
agined it, — and you so sunny. Why ! here 
we are only two days on board and you 
know everybody from the cook up; and I’ll 
bet my bottom dollar that every mother’s 
son of them is ready to die for you. ’ ’ 

Mr. Savage laughed as he replied, “Yes, 
I know them all; and the most interesting 
pair on board are a young husband and 
wife; he is under some cloud, for she 
watches him continually — but in spite of 
186 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


that they possess, in all its fullness, the 
true sweetness of life — true love. They 
have not told me their sorrow yet, but they 
will. ’ ’ 

“Of course they will,” answered Mr. 
Allison enthusiastically, “they all do.” 

“Ah, good evening, my dears,” said 
Mr. Savage, “I was just telling my friend, 
Mr. Allison, about you. I have the honor, 
Mrs. Wentworth, to introduce Mr. Allison 
to you. Mr. Wentworth, you will find Mr. 
Allison has great artistic perceptions ; and 
Mr. Wentworth, you must show him your 
pictures. ’ ’ 

“Oh, don’t! Spare me!” laughed Mr. 
Wentworth. 

The speaker was a typical Southerner ; 
dark, graceful and courteous. “Bessie,” 
turning to his wife, “you are to blame for 
this. ’ ’ 

“No, Charlie dear, not to blame. I did 
nothing wrong when I said you were an 
187 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


artist, — yon are slightly out of practice,, 
though,’ ’ she explained. 

She, too, was an agreeable type of 
Southern womanhood. 

“Worse and more of it. When I was 
courting my wife, gentlemen, I was foolish 
enough to try to win her by painting or 
daubing some flowers and that is the sum 
total of my claim to the talent of paint- 
ing.” 

Mr. Savage’s genial face wore an ex- 
pression of thought ; he seemed to be study- 
ing the countenance of the young man, 
when suddenly he said : 

“Excuse me, Mr. Wentworth, but it 
seems to me that I have met you before.” 

“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Allison, “your 
face is strangely familiar.” 

The young couple exchanged rapid 
telegraphic glances. He flushed and she 
paled, but he answered with an affectation 
of carelessness. 


188 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“Oh, I suppose we knocked up against 
each other in a crowd somewhere.” 

‘ ‘ Probably, ’ ’ assented Mr. Savage kind- 
ly, but to himself he thought, “No, I have 
met him somewhere, of that I am sure, but 
he will tell me after awhile. Poor lad! I 
hope it is not a crime. ’ ’ 

Mr. Allison, not possessing his friend’s 
sweet tact, said brusquely, “I am sure I 
know you, but I cannot place you. 7 ’ 

Eleonore coming up at this juncture,, 
claimed Mr. Allison’s attention, and Mr. 
Wentworth’s secret was safe. 

After this little incident, however, the 
young man appeared to avoid being alone 
with Mr. Allison, though seeming to court 
the society of Mr. Savage, probably be- 
cause the latter courteously avoided the 
subject of his identity. With the passing 
hours the friends grew more companion- 
able; and whatever mystery hovered over 
the young couple, whether it was poverty or 
189 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


crime, was, apparently by common consent, 
not touched upon. 

Just before the end of the trip, the older 
men sat together again on deck. 

“Mr. Savage, would you think from 
looking at my face that I too had suff- 
ered ? ’ ’ asked Mr. Allison. 

Mr. Savage studied his friend’s face in 
the blaze of torches held by the deck hands 
on the river’s bank, but he did not make any 
reply. 

The steamer, puffing and blowing, had 
stopped at a small landing place to unload 
some cargo, and the cries of the men, the 
noisy movement of heavy shipment, the 
uneasy placing of the boat, pushing in and 
backing out before the final landing was 
effected, made conversation at that moment 
an utter impossibility. When the steamer 
began to move on the placid waters of the 
great Mississippi, carrying our friends on- 
ward toward Chicago, their destination, 
Mr. Savage replied to his friend’s question. 

190 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“Yes, my boy, yon have known sorrow 
in your life, and worse than sorrow, you 
have known sin, and — and — I doubt if you 
have any fixed religious belief. Indeed, 
perhaps, you don’t believe in the existence 
of God at all. Am I right'?” 

* 4 Great heavens ! ’ ’ softly whispered Mr. 
Allison in awe, “'What are} you, a ma- 
gician?” 

“Yes, my boy, a magician, but only 
through the right of sorrow. Am I right 
about your infidel principles *? 9 9 

‘ 4 Savage, whatever were my principles 
in the past, want of belief in a Creator is 
not of them now. No man could know you 
or your niece for one twenty-four hours 
and doubt the existence of God.” 

Mr. Savage’s eyes glistened. “I am 
glad to hear you talk like that. Now tell me 
your story.” 

“I am ashamed to tell it, but your big 
heart will make allowances for birth, en- 
vironment and education.” 

191 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


6 i Go on, my dear boy. I am human as 
well as you,” gently replied Mr. Savage. 

“I was a rich planter’s son, and say- 
ing that — well, damn it ! you understand ? ’ ’ 
Mr. Allison’s handsome face was as pale 
as one of his complexion could be. 

“I understand,” the other replied, 
“You were allowed to reach manhood with 
untamed passions, among creatures, the 
slaves, that were only so much chattel to 
be bought and sold, or to be played with. ’ ’ 
“Oh! Savage, if I could only wipe out 
that past,” groaned Mr. Allison. “God! 
Since I have met your niece, the only wo- 
man I have loved since my wife left me — ” 
“Your wife ! Is it as bad as that? Is she 
living, Allison?” Mr. Savage’s voice rang 
with unusual sterness. 

“Mr. Savage,” answered Mr. Allison 
with dignity, “I have been a heedless man, 
a selfish one, a bad man if you will — but 
I am not quite so bad as that. My wife is 
dead.” 


192 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


4 4 Thank God ! Go on. ’ ’ 

44 I loved her passionately — but a man 
cannot reform in a couple of months. My 
married life — I was twenty- two when I 
married — covered just two months. At 
the end of that time, Mary Hamilton, that 
was my wife’s maiden name, left me to 
return to her father.’ ’ 

4 4 Poor lad! Did you try to get her 
back?” 

4 4 Now, I might — but then ! Oh ! there is 
no use mincing matters ; I was a brute and 
a conceited puppy. I did not deserve such 
a woman as she was. Years after, when 
time had taught me a lesson; I tried to 
find her; she had gone from Louisiana to 
Kentucky — but I was too late. She was 
dead. That is not the worst ; on the event 
of her death, my father-in-law, a very poor 
man, left Kentucky with my child. Yes,, 
you may start, Mr. Savage, your Creator 
knows how to punish. Mr. Hamilton, fear- 
ing that I would put in my claim for my 
193 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


boy, hid all traces of his whereabouts. As 
if to intensify my remorse; an old lady 
friend of Mary’s told me that my wife 
never ceased to love me until she ceased to 
live. ’ ’ Mr. Allison paused in his vehement 
speech, a deep silence followed, broken at 
last by Mr. Savage. 

“How sad it is, my dear boy, that so 
many men have the best of life spent before 
it dawns on them what a magnificent gift 
true manhood is. Yet, some passionate 
natures will not mature — or I should say 
develop till sorrow comes — but sin ! ’Twere 
better that we had never to pass through 
that.” 

“Yes, when a sin-stained life shuts you 
out of heaven,” groaned Mr. Allison. 

“ To be honest with you Allison, in spite 
of your past, I like you sincerely. I would 
prefer that my niece should have a husband 
of unblemished honor; but next to an un- 
sullied life, is a repentant one, — but here ’s 
the rub; I am afraid you are too late.” 

194 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“Do you tell me that she is engaged?” 
anxiously asked Mr. Allison. “But I am 
too old, a man of forty-five is — ” 

“Nonsense, man, not too old; Eleonore 
is twenty-eight. The difference is not so 
much. She has had lots of admirers; but 
she is hard to please. I might as well tell 
you the truth; she is head over heels in 
love,” and the genial old man laughed. 

“Do you know the object of her af- 
fections?” Mr. Allison sorrowfully asked. 

“Yes, I know him. Bless your soul, 
Allison, she is dead in love with John Sav- 
age, late editor of The New Orleans 
Times.” 

A hearty laugh of relief burst from Mr. 
Allison as he gleefully said, “I’ll win her 
if words can persuade her. ’ ’ 

“There she is now,” laughed Mr. Sav- 
age, “try your powers of persuasion, Alli- 
son, and, good luck attend you, but remem- 
ber, you must take instruction before mar- 
riage — you must join the Catholic Faith. 

195 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


“Catholic Faith! Why I would join the 
Turks/ ’ eagerly cried the other. 

The winning was easier boasted of than 
accomplished. Ignoring all mention of re- 
ligion but prefacing his proposal by a brief 
confession of his past, Mr. Allison felt in- 
stinctively that Eleonore shrank from him. 

“Your wife left you, Mr. Allison? I 
cannot understand how any woman of 
principle could leave the man she gave faith 
to unless he — he were very bad. ’ ’ 

“I was bad,” he humbly answered. 

Her eyes flashed, “And you ask me to 
marry you ! Do you think a woman 
would give her life into the keeping of a 
man who tells her that he is bad ? ’ ’ 

“For God’s sake, Eleonore, don’t 
make me worse than I am; I said I tvas 
bad.” 

“ Was or is, it makes little difference. 
Mr. Allison, you dishonor the woman you 
profess to love, when you mention the two 
things in one breath.” 

196 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


All Mr. Allison’s Southern blood assert- 
ed itself. “No man, were he the veriest 
criminal living, dishonors a woman by giv- 
ing her his best love, even if that best love 
rises from the ashes of an evil life. I don’t 
ask you, Eleonore, to reform me ; I am re- 
formed. If I never had met you, I would 
yet lead a noble life because of having 
known your uncle. Yes, if John Savage has 
confidence in me ; I shall have confidence in 
myself. I am not worthy of you, Eleonore, 
but I will be before I die. Hence my future 
will be, apart from the renewing of my lost 
manhood — a search for my lost child.” 

Eleonore started visibly. Her expres- 
sion softened. “Have you a child, Mr. 
Allison?” 

‘ ‘ One that I never saw, Eleonore. I had 
hoped you would help me in my life work — 
but — ” then his voice broke. 

“Mr. Allison, forgive me if I seem se- 
vere — but a woman — ” she hesitated. 

“I understand, and I respect your wo- 


i s < 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


manhood, Eleonore, and I shall intrude on 
you no more.” He walked slowly away, 
but Eleonore, quickly following said chok- 
ingly: 

“ Can’t you understand? It is because 
I love you that I fear — ” 

The two lovers were in happy conver- 
sation the next morning when Mr. and Mrs. 
Wentworth joined them on deck. Putting 
her arm through that of Eleonore ’s the 
young wife drew her gently away from the 
men, saying: 

‘ ‘ Come, dear, I want to have a chat with 
you.” 

Left alone, Mr. Allison looked inquir- 
ingly at Mr. Wentworth till the younger 
man with an evident effort said : 

‘ 4 Mr. Allison, I need your advice. I have 
found in my short acquaintance with Mr. 
Savage that I love him dearly.” 

“ Every one does,” said Mr. Allison. 

“Well — I have been deceiving him 
and — ” 


198 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“Now, see here, Wentworth, here he 
comes. Just undeceive him right away.” 

“But— ” 

“Savage,” laughed Mr. Allison, “here 
is another penitent. Confess, Wentworth.” 

Seating himself with tender expression 
of kindest solicitude, Mr. Savage signed 
for the young man to go on; but the effort 
seemed too much for him. The* deck was 
unusually silent, the movement of the boat 
through the water could be distinctly heard. 
At length Mr. Wentworth broke the silence. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Savage, you have received me into 
the bosom of your family as if I were your 
equal. ’ 9 

“And you are, my dear boy.” 

‘ 4 1 am not, my dear sir. A month ago I 
might have considered myself as such; at 
that time my father died, leaving me a 
comparatively rich man. I had just mar- 
ried the dear little woman who is now my 
wife when the bank failed and my modest 
fortune was gone.” 


199 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


4 4 That is no disgrace, ’ ’ said both gentle- 
men in a breath. 

4 4 This,- a college education, was all I 
possessed, and I know nothing of business 
— I tried to get work. I did not succeed. 
I was getting poorer every day and so I — ” 

4 4 Stole? Well, you wont do it again,’ * 
emphatically stated Mr. Savage. 

The young man, with glistening eyes, 
seized the old man’s hand and pressed it 
fondly. 4 4 No, thank God! I am honest.” 

4 4 Then, what in the dickens a,re you mak- 
ing all this fuss about?” 

4 4 Mr. Savage, — Mr. Allison, — I was the 
middle man in the Minstrels, and I am now 
on my way to New York to join another 
troupe. Do you understand?” 

4 4 Understand,” shouted Mr. Savage. 
“Allison, don’t you remember how familiar 
his face seemed the first day we met him 
on the boat? By Jove! you are a great 
boy. But no actor, boy. You don’t join a 
200 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


troupe in New York if I know anything. 
What do you say, Allison ?” 

“Why, being a minstrel by profession 
is no disgraxe, ’ 7 said Mr. Allison in his 
soft, drawling tones. “Still, we can get 
him something better. Is that all?” 

“No sir! I am still sailing under false 
colors.” 

‘ ‘ Pull them down, lad. Pull them 
down,” interrupted Mr. Savage. 

“Well here they go — my name is not 
W entworth . 7 7 

i ‘ Oh ! that is an understood thing , 7 7 ex- 
claimed Mr. Savage, determined to make 
the confession easy. “Everybody knows 
an actor assumes a fictitious name.” 

“Yes, Mr. Savage, but Wentworth is 
not my stage name,” the young man said 
with gentle dignity. 

“Then what the devil is it, Charlie? 
What difference does it make to us, any- 
way?” Mr. Savage’s genial temper chafed 
at his persistent humility. 

201 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


i ‘ It makes this difference, Mr. Savage, 
that you are too good a man to he deceived. 
I am not your equal; and I should never 
have forced myself upon you ; but that you 
compelled me to do so.” 

“And right glad I am, Charlie. Why 
bless you, boy; your past is God’s; your 
present is mine. If it will relieve you to 
tell all you know about your antecedents, 
tell it! If the telling hurts, why, damn 
it ! hold your tongue. ’ 9 

“I have no antecedents. I was a poor 
orphan, adopted by the rich Mr. Wentworth 
of Texas. My mother separated from her 
husband some time before my birth. She 
died when I was an infant and left me to 
my grandfather, a very poor man. Heart- 
broken over his daughter’s death, he soon 
followed her, and then Mr. Wentworth 
adopted me. I understood that my grand- 
father hated my father — and I did likewise. 
I never knew my father’s name.” 

“My God,” gasped Mr. Allison, stag- 
202 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


gering to his feet, 4 ‘ Your mother’s name, 
hoy, quick!” 

“My mother’s name, Sir, was Mary 
Hamilton. ’ ’ 

‘ 4 My wife ! Great God ! ’ ’ cried Mr. Alli- 
son.” No wonder your face was familiar! 
Those eyes! Great heaven! They are 
Mary ’s. ’ ’ 

“And you, sir! are — ” Mr. Wentworth 
hesitated. 

“Your father, lad! your father.” 

Mr. Savage ’s glad tones rang out on the 
evening air; but father and son stood 
motionless gazing on each other, the form- 
er with eager pleading — the latter with 
mingled feelings of joy and repulsion. 

“You hated my mother?” questioned 
Mr. Wentworth. 

“I loved her Charlie! I loved her. For 
years I have sought her and you, and now, ’ ’ 
stretching out his arms, “I have found 
you. ’ ’ 

Charlie did not respond; his face was 
203 


SNAPSHOTS BY THE WAY 


working pitifully. Desire, repulsion, hope, 
chased across his most expressive counten- 
ance; but he stood motionless. “You say 
you — loved — her — but why — ” he asked 
hesitatingly. 

‘ ‘ Good God, boy ! What are you w r aiting 
for? ’Twas all a mistake, a lover’s quar- 
rel,” burst in Mr. Savage. “Did you 
never hear that your mother loved your 
father to the day of her death! Did you 
not know your grandfather hated him ; be- 
cause he didn’t understand! Are you so- 
free from sin that you can stand in judg- 
ment against your father! His heart is 
even now breaking at your obstinacy.” 

The young man started violently and 
answ r ered vehemently, ‘ ‘ ’Tis not obstinacy - r 
I wait for the truth.” 

Eleonore had come back with Mrs. 
Wentworth in time to hear the revelation, 
and placing her hand on Charlie ’s arm said 
softly : 


204 


TO HIM WHO WAITS 


“You have heard the truth. He loves 
you, Charlie, as he loved your mother.” 

Waiting for no more, the young man 
threw himself with Southern abandon into 
his father’s outstretched arms. 

Mr. Savage turned softly away. The 
moon shone full on the rippling surface of 
the river. They had left the region of 
funereal moss-draped trees and were 
steaming into pastoral scenes of beauty. 
Looking with glistening eyes out on the 
waters, the old gentleman softly whispered, 
“All things come to him who waits/ ’ 


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